


Because You Survived

by MartiMacClowerson



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Season, Depression, F/M, Injury Recovery, PTSD, Series Retconning, Slow Burn, bodyguarding, discussion of suicide, new year's, series continuation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-10-20 14:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 81,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17624204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartiMacClowerson/pseuds/MartiMacClowerson
Summary: Julia and David learn how to heal.[The series continues following Episode 6 (with series retconning) and Julia didn't die in the blast. Consider this an additional four or six episodes.]





	1. Chapter 1

The tears falling down her temples and pooling in her ears is what stirs her. The presence of pain all over her body but her puzzling total disregard for it wakes her. She gasps for air but she recognizes the continual stream of cool oxygen coming in through her nose from tubes. She feels a similar, colder coolness in her arm. She flexes her hand slightly, the only bit of movement she’s comfortable making. She continues closing her hand until she feels the tape on the back of it go taut. She doesn’t feel the catheter that the tape is holding in place but she knows it’s there. The rest of her body is warm under a heavy blanket. She feels embraced by the bed.

She’s settled and content.

She believes herself to be content anyway. She certainly doesn’t feel it necessary to get up or even move. She’s too exhausted to even try. This was the most knackered she has ever been, like waking up from the longest, most troublesome nap. Ten fold.

She realizes where she is. How she got there is a task to figure out.

The only most recent memory Julia can recall is—

“David.”

“Julia?”

Her mother appears in her view. It’s exhausting keeping her eyes open and all that she sees is not entirely clear, but if that’s how her mother looks, Julia wonders about the state of herself.

“Mum,” she smiles.

Frances fails at masking her worry with an attempt at a smile. She offers her daughter water, which Julia meekly sips through a straw, and then dries her tears with her hands. Julia savors her mother’s touch.

“Let me fetch the doctor.”

But it’s not the doctor Julia needs to see.

David had been running right for her. Toward the explosion.

Julia’s heart races and the tears come on just as fast. She fights with herself to keep from just openly sobbing. She is both successful and not. She convulses silently. When the doctor and her mother return to the room, they’re given cause to rush to her side.

“Julia!”

“Ma’am, tell me what’s wrong.”

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. One inhale and the oxygen-rich air is enough to knock her out of hysterics. She takes in another breath, this time through her mouth, and composes herself for the doctor.

“I’m fine,” she finally says. It only comes out as a whisper but she says it with legitimate confidence.

The doctor still flashes a light in both her eyes anyway. She wants to smack the tiny torch out of his hand but she realizes her untethered arm is actually encumbered by a cast that goes from the base of her fingers to her upper arm. So instead, she simply winces each time the doctor directs the light into her eyes and allows him to carry out his assessment.

He inclines her bed so that she sits up. The position makes her headache more apparent. As he looks into her ears, she realizes that there is an annoyingly dull ache that consumes her hips. She shifts a bit but it alleviates nothing. The doctor makes an adjustment on the blue box attached to her IV stand.

So far, he seems satisfied, but he takes a step back and continues to study her.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asks.

“Julia Montague,” she croaks. She doesn’t recognize her own voice but carries on nonetheless. “Can you tell me what’s happened?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“You really ask patients that?” Julia says with an incredulous smirk. Gradually, her voice begins to resemble what she remembers. “Look, I know we’re in a hospital. My date of birth is 12 June 1977. That there is my mother, Frances Montague. I serve Her Majesty The Queen as Home Secretary. Last I knew, John Vosler was the Prime Minister. And I have no clue what today’s date is, but I’m desperately hoping it’s still 2018. Now, can you please tell me what’s happened?”

Her stubborn pragmatism prevents her from asking about David outright. If he’s alive and if their relationship is to be salvaged, let alone survive, she has to protect it until she can see him.

Or it’s her attempt at delaying discovering David’s fate. Because, right now, in her mind, he’s alive. He’s simply waiting for the vending machine to finish spitting coffee into a short paper cup. She can imagine the stunned look on his face when he comes back to the room. It was a look she had seen not long ago; whenever it was that they were last alone together. It might have been weeks. For Julia, that memory will always feel recent.

“What’s the last thing you remember, dear?” Frances asks.

_David._

“I’m not sure,” Julia lies.

“You were giving a speech at St. Matthew’s and a bomb went off.”

“Right,” Julia says, nodding to herself. “Who else was hurt, do you know?” She swallows. “Did anyone die?”

“From my understanding,” the doctor starts, “five people in the first row perished. I believe they were directly in front of the blast.”

“Your aide, Mr. Mahmood, was killed. Apparently he was on the stage just a few feet behind you and directly behind the explosion,” Frances adds.

Julia lets her eyes fall. They begin to sting. She can recall her last moment with Tahir. There will never be a time where Julia apologizes for her ambition, but she realizes now, she could do with more tact. Especially for those who work closely with her.

“One of your protection officers died as well.”

Julia’s eyes shoot up. She had been trying her best to remain collected. At the very least appear as such. However, the monitor betrays her and announces her accelerated heart rate, screaming a rapid succession of beeps. The doctor mutes it.

“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten her name,” her mother reveals. “Kimberly, was it?”

Julia is all at once devastated and extraordinarily relieved, and it manifests itself into sobs. She received the answer she was looking for, but relayed in the worst possible way.

He is alive.

But Kim isn’t.

Had David never joined her protection outfit, Julia would have readily pushed for PC Knowles to have been promoted and made her primary PPO. She was genuinely fond of Kim, and though there was only one person she truly trusted, there was trust in Kim. She was certainly confident in Kim, believing that she would lay down her life for her.

And she had.

“I’m so sorry, dear.”

Frances sits beside her daughter and pulls her toward her. Julia melts in her mother’s arms. Her comfort takes Julia’s grief aside for a moment, allowing her to think of the hope that remains.

David is alive.

She’ll have to protect whatever it is they have. She can’t speak his name. She can’t ask for him. She can’t see him. That devastation as well as the overwhelming relief refuels her cries. Julia doesn’t foresee pulling herself together at the moment.

Thankfully, her mother senses that.

“What happens now, doctor?” Frances asks.

“We monitor Julia over the next couple days and then hopefully we can transfer you to the rehabilitation center.”

Julia swipes her lone free hand across her cheeks numerous times to dry her face. She feels something new each time. The topography of her face has changed. There are scabs and scars.

“That’s it? Two days and you’re giving me the boot?”

The doctor offers a sympathetic smile.

“Julia, you’ve been in hospital for six weeks,” he tells her. “Nearly four of which were spent in a medically-induced coma. You woke up for the first time about a week ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” the doctor nods. “I question whether we should tell you all about it again at this moment, but I think you’ve taken in a lot already.”

“I think so,” Frances agrees.

“I’ll come back in a few hours, check how you are, and we’ll talk more then. Or you can ask for me whenever you’re ready.”

Julia tries to lift up her club of an arm to express her thanks.

“Is there anything I can do for you presently? How is the pain?”

“The pain is there, I know it is, but I’m not bothered. I’m just terribly uncomfortable,” she tells the doctor.

“I’ll see what more we can do for you, but I’m afraid this might be the best it’ll be for a while. I anticipate you falling back asleep anyway. That should be of some relief from the discomfort.”

The discomfort is already pushed to the back of her mind. Just about everything else has raced to the forefront. She attempts to organize her thoughts; she is easily lost in the confusion.

“Thank you, doctor,” Frances says on behalf of her daughter.

He leaves and Frances is left to field the questions he was not qualified to answer. It doesn’t appear as though Julia is ready, though, and she absolutely isn’t anywhere near close. She struggles to find order for her thoughts with David constantly pushing to the front. David who she’s been apart from for six weeks.

“Six weeks must startle you, but the good news is: you’ve been healing all that time,” her mother says. “And hopefully the worst of the pain is behind you without you really experiencing it.”

_Hopefully._

Julia thinks of David.

Had he come to see her?

Was he all right?

Where was he now?

“Has it been just you looking after me, Mum?”

Frances knows what her daughter’s angling for. Or so she thinks.

“Roger’s been by,” she answers.

“Oh God.” Julia doesn’t even bother hiding her contempt. “Why?”

“‘ _Why?_ ’” Frances mocks, but then she realizes her daughter has a point. “You’re right, actually. I mean, he’s checked in on you, but always just briefly. Mostly, he’s preoccupied, nearly obsessed, with that protection officer. Making sure he isn’t around or scaring him off if he is. I don’t—”

“What protection officer?” Julia interrupts, her eyes narrowed.

“Budd.”

Julia quite literally feels rejuvenated. Her heart beats strongly, purposefully. Her lungs fill completely. Clarity washes her mind.

He indeed has come to see her. Multiple times. Enough to aggravate Roger, which brings Julia even more joy.

“...because I thought it quite funny that his name was ‘Budd’ and—”

“Mother, I’m sorry,” Julia interrupts again. “Has David—” She catches herself and takes a tick to collect herself, suppressing her eagerness. “Has PS Budd come by recently?”

“Julia, who _is_ PS Budd?”

“He’s one of my protection officers.”

“Right.” Frances smirks, utterly unconvinced, especially given what she’s witnessed herself. “Well, I was told that the sergeant never left your side until you were brought into surgery. I believe there was a little more than a week in the aftermath in which he was absent, but then he appeared again one day and just about every day since.”

The corner of Julia’s mouth pulls into her cheek.

“He comes at all hours. Often he’s here through the night.”

“Here?”

“Well, out in the lounge area in the lobby. Roger’s barred him from the entire wing. So, unfortunately, he waits out in the lobby.” Frances notices the discouragement on her daughter’s face. “The sofas out there seem comfortable. Or maybe not; I sometimes see him asleep on the floor. But no one bothers him, except Roger.”

“Oh, to hell with Roger.”

“He says—”

“Fuck what Roger says.”

“Well, thank the Lord, I see that you’re still our Julia,” Frances smiles. “So then I’d be remiss to tell you, I’ve come across their altercations a number of times, and each time, Roger has an absolute conniption. It’s quite amusing.”

The Montague ladies share identical smiles.

“Sergeant Budd eventually leaves to placate him,” Frances continues, “but he always holds his own against Roger. I think most importantly, Julia, he always comes back.”

She caresses her daughter’s face and places a kiss on her temple.

“I can’t explain it to you right now,” Julia says. “It’s a precarious situation. I’m not even sure I know what it is.”

“Well, it is something. Know that much.”

Julia sighs heavily, almost comfortably. Pain be damned. At least something makes a little more sense, and the rest of it can wait until later, because all of that can be figured out when David is by her side. With him.

She settles into her mother and allows the fatigue to settle into her. She hums approvingly as her mother combs her hair with her hand. Frances’s motherly touch ushers Julia toward sleep.

But Frances carries on the conversation. None of which Julia follows. It’s only when Frances begins sliding away from her that Julia gives her her attention.

“No, no, no. Close your eyes,” the elder Montague insists. The younger complies. “I was just saying, I’ll let you sleep, and I’ll go to your flat and pick up some things to make you more comfortable. Maybe I’ll even have a lie down.”

“Yes,” Julia drowsily nods, her response delayed. “Please go to mine and get a proper rest.”

Frances places another kiss on her sleeping daughter’s head before combing her hair down with her hands one final time. She cleans up the remnants of Julia’s tears, being careful around the last of the scratches on her face. They’re very nearly healed. The scabs will go away and the redness will disappear. In their place will be scars; some slight, others a little more apparent.

She’s lucky, though. She’s alive.

Frances decides she’s admired her daughter enough for now. She can leave for a little while and recharge. In her stead, she’ll place her daughter in capable, caring hands.

She gives her daughter one more kiss. This time on the cheek.

“This David of yours,” Frances says, “I’ll leave him to look after you.”

“What?”

Julia forces her eyes open only to see the door close behind her mother, and then darkness. She is too weak, too tired, too drugged up to open them again. She’s drifting away; hopefully away from the nightmares. She didn’t think about them when she woke, but now she was back in their realm. They are vivid. Almost tangible.

She can feel the gust of heat flash across her face, firing ragged debris into her skin, into her eyes. Her arm cracks when she’s shoved and thrown into the air. Her elbow shatters when she slams into the ground. She lands on what must be fire. Her flesh begins to burn. She can’t smell it. She can’t breathe.

Julia hears a door open. Oxygen fills her lungs. Strange as it may be, but not surprising to her, comforting, in fact, a whiff of warm blueberry pie with a hint of bergamot reaches her nose. Her skin tingles. She is wrapped in a cotton cocoon. Her arm is immobile, but it isn’t in unintended pieces. Her face warms as she senses him approach. She feels his fingers grace her forehead as he tucks hair behind her ear. She nuzzles her cheek into the palm of his hand.

“David.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "a whiff of warm blueberry pie with a hint of bergamot"
> 
> Admittedly, this is a strange detail, but I had an ex who magically smelled this way and I have nothing but love for him and wonderful memories with him. The smell alone just makes me happy. Therefore, that's how David smells. Guys, it's a delightful aroma.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia lives. David struggles.

Sleeping on the ground isn’t unfamiliar to him. In time, he napped every chance he could when he was deployed. On cold concrete. On sand, both loose and compact, with rocks the size of golf balls but jagged and pointy. On worn rugs, thick and roughly textured or so thin the ground might as well have been bare. On wood floors with splinters and protruding nail heads, and sometimes nail points. On tile that never warmed under him.

Even in those circumstances—the different surfaces that he would call his bed, the dangers that surrounded him and his fellow soldiers, the mental and emotional aches of being in combat and of being away from home—sleep eventually came relatively easy to him. His mind and body simply surrendered to it.

The state of him now, after what he had gone through weeks ago, isn't all that different than the state of him six years ago. The fatigue. The tension. The apprehension. The constant dread. It is all reminiscent of his past life.

Except he could sleep then.

Presently, David is just the façade of a sleeping man.

He is lying in a corner. On his back. His legs are bent. His feet flat on the carpet. He bundled up his scarf to prop up his head and uses his pea coat as a blanket. All things considered, he appears comfortable.

He tries to facilitate sleep with curated thoughts that make him smile. He hopes they’ll guide him and ease him into a positive, pleasant slumber that will, God willing, last a few continuous hours. He goes with the same thoughts every time he attempts to sleep.

Her smirk. Her snark. Her gaze. Her scent. Her touch. Her taste. Her warmth. Her surrender. Her force.

_Her._

If he just keeps seeing her in his mind, he stubbornly thinks he can manufacture new memories.

But he can’t get there. He has to be asleep to dream.

Instead, the thoughts resurface tragic memories or morph into horrifying worst-case scenarios.

Not nightmares. He has to be asleep to have nightmares.

With his eyes closed he can see Sleep surround him. It keeps its distance. It won’t attempt to come near, because on top of his mind’s refusal to acquiesce, existing in between David and Sleep is cool, intruding white light, an unwanted guardian. David knows this light to be the powerful fluorescents that light the hospital atrium. He shields his face with his arm, but he’s been bathed in the light for too long, his eyelids have been whitewashed. When he opens his eyes, there’s hardly a need to adjust to the light. The brightness belies the time of day. David turns his head and stares into the darkness of late night through the floor to ceiling picture windows.

The atrium is spacious but there’s still a quaintness to it despite the sterilizing light. It’s no where near as palatial as the main atrium at the center of the hospital. This one connects just two floors of a wing on the hospital’s far edge. Foot traffic is very minimal in this wing. The general public are probably unaware of its existence, but mostly because of its secured, “approved personnel only” designation.

He had tried to return after he had initially been dismissed the night of the explosion. It was two in the morning. He (correctly) assumed Roger would have gone home. He thought it safe to be able to simply sit and wait for news, but David found himself halted at the service entry by armed uniformed officers executing Roger’s orders to bar him from entering. He was threatened with arrest when he put up a fight and seriously considered letting them just take him in.

He had decided better of it when he thought that if he was to end up getting locked up, it wouldn’t be because he wanted to sit around waiting for news. He was going to give even more purpose to his fight.

No amount of lengthy deployments to foreign war zones could even come close to matching the weeks following the St. Matthew’s attack. David might say he would have rather been literally on fire again and hit with searing shrapnel if it could erase those weeks from his life. Physical scars would harden. They would no longer hurt. They would no longer bother. How he had gotten the tangible scars from the war was essentially senseless at its very core.

These scars he was left with now were initially unintended for him, but once he had forced himself into the conspiracies, scarring him at any chance was very much the intention.

As he stares up at the raised ceiling of the atrium, David idly passes his quivering hand up and down his chest. He takes a deep breath; it stutters on the way in and trembles on the way out. There is nothing but the soft cotton of his jumper under his palm. David holds his hands together over his stomach, burying his left thumb in his right hand. He stretches his thumb, tries to crack it, massages it. He begins to pull at it as if he wants to detach it from his hand.

Therapy does in fact help. He dreads going every single time and then scoffs to himself— _at_ himself—when the session is done and he feels like he can truly fill his lungs. That first session, though… All the big stuff had hit him all at once. The First of October rail attack, the Heath Bank explosion and its proximity to his kids, being under fire at Thornton Circus, Terry’s death, Andy’s suicide, the St. Matthew’s bombing, Julia being taken from him, Tahir and Kim’s deaths, the suicide vest…

David had to go in every couple of days at first just to unload everything. It took multiple sessions. They didn’t explore any one single event in depth, and still haven’t, but it was already a massive relief releasing it all and seeing what needed to be sorted. David found some solace in finally acknowledging it all. He was no longer buried underneath it, but he was still surrounded by it.

Now, the sessions are weekly, with Dr. Nicholson focused on learning about David and figuring out which therapy (or therapies) would be their best approach to healing him. She was honest with him, telling him his road to recovery would be long. There was so much to get through.

All said and done, it was worth it to get Aikens, Ali, and Craddock. It made him feel ok again.

It felt like that now, anyway. “Ok” could go away at an instant.

Because if Julia didn’t survive after all…

That is probably the biggest roadblock amongst the handful that he and his therapist have discovered together. Every session they approach the road but David simply stares down it, studying the reflective, wooden barriers and all the caution tape, but he never tries to look beyond the blockade.

How could he? Beyond the blockade is Julia, but he hasn’t the faintest idea how she is. At one point, he was sure she had died. It was reported as such.

David couldn’t live with himself.

The most bizarre reaction David had when it came to the whole St. Matthew’s conspiracy, after it was all done and over with, was gratitude. He was grateful to be used as a pawn. Grateful that his suicide attempt was foiled by Aikens. He was also thankful, and regretful, that it was Vicky who stumbled upon him in his bloodied, weakened state.

“Why now?!” Vicky demanded to know after giving him a dressing-down. “Do you think you failed? Because you didn’t.”

David vividly remembers thinking how absurd a claim that was. He scoffed, too offensively. “Julia died. I failed.”

“No, she’s alive.” When he could only stare at her in confusion, Vicky fiddled with her phone and showed him an article contradicting earlier reports. “Some idiot at the hospital opened their gob when it was pretty bad and the stupid papers raced to be the first to announce her ‘death.’”

“She’s alive,” he had said to himself. He couldn’t see through his tears, but he turned to Vicky. “Is she going to make it?”

“It’s still too early to tell. All I know is she’s stable in the ICU right now. That’s something, and she’s putting up a fight. You have to do the same, Dave. Please.”

She went on, divulging what she had overheard the doctors at her hospital say when they were discussing Julia’s case and interpreting for him all that it could mean. Vicky would never realize how crucial it was for her to have been there, to find him, to educate him.

“She has a chance, Dave. That’s the best we can hope for.”

If Julia had a chance, then he did too.

David avoids the news as much as possible now, which only pads his ignorance of Julia’s condition, but in addition to the conflicting reports, he himself had occupied so much of the news following the standoff in Pope Square. They constantly used footage from the incident. Him standing in the middle of the lawn wearing a vest loaded with explosives, tactical officers surrounding him at a safe distance with their rifles trained on him. He grimaces every time he sees the photos or videos, and he sees them often in his head.

He’s since fallen out of the news cycle, but just to be safe, he stays in his bubble. He doesn’t give any television more than a cursory glance. He doesn’t use his phone for anything other than to call the kids, Vicky, or his parents. He diverts his eyes when he sees a newspaper. It was just a few quick Google searches for news on Julia’s condition, but they always ended abruptly when he’d see himself in a thumbnail for an article he didn’t care to read. As soon as he recognized his face, he’d slam his laptop shut.

Returning to the hospital was enough of an indicator of Julia’s condition for him. For as long as there was the presence of uniformed guards at the entrances, he knew she was still there and alive. That’s all he could go on, though. The medical staff aren’t a help to him. At first, one of the staff was willing to divulge vague updates to him, but Roger ran a smear campaign against him to the hospital staff and security. Even after he was heralded as a hero by the news, it was only enough for him to simply gain entry back into the building. They sympathetically tolerated his presence, but they still wouldn’t provide him any information other than, yes, the Home Secretary was still in hospital. It's against protocol to disclose patient information to anyone other than family anyway, but they also simply don't trust Police Sergeant Budd.

_"Just how did PS Budd end up in a suicide vest?"_

_"He’s somehow connected to the 1/10 bomber."_

_"He’s a rogue officer."_

_"When they tried to arrest him, he fled."_

_"He had something to do with St. Matthew’s."_

_"Why is he here?"_

David sits up and pushes himself back against the wall. There’s a reason why he sticks to this seating area off to the side, why he retreats to the corner, obstructed by almost every view thanks to the sofa and some plants. Not because he doesn’t want to be bothered. He doesn’t want to be a bother.

He stopped going to the nurses’ station to ask whoever would grant him their attention if Julia was even still in hospital. He would see the uniformed officers as he approached the building and just know. They would give him a respectful nod as he neared and silently open the door for him. He would wave from the hip at the nurses’ station whether they saw it or not and head right over to his seating area where he always settled in quickly.

He hangs out on the love seat that faces her corridor when he isn’t in the corner attempting to sleep. He brings whatever snacks fit inside his jacket pockets and carries in a water bottle. He only leaves his area to use the bathroom. Otherwise, he’s on the love seat, studying every member of hospital staff he sees in an effort to glean information from their actions. He keeps an eye on the doors to the corridor. As the weeks went on, he stopped sitting up to see who was coming out. If their business pertained to him (though, why would it?), they would come over to him.

No one ever did.

There was one exception. During a break or a shift change, one of the officers brought him a coffee and asked him why he was always around. David couldn’t admit to any of answers that would truthfully satisfy the officer’s curiosity. So he simply shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

Word must have got around that he was incapable of engaging with people. Nobody else tried to talk to him after that.

He’s very nearly invisible, and he’s absolutely ok with that because it almost feels like he’s her PPO again. He exists in the room while everyone else carries on, oblivious of him. Julia eventually took notice of him, though.

There are simple little exercises his therapist suggested he do any time he felt out of sorts. Needless to say, he's doing them often. They are as inconspicuous as stretching his neck or taking deep breaths and keeping count of them. Others aim to help relieve the tension that manifests itself in his body. It's as rudimentary as remembering to relax his shoulders. It doesn't seem like much but when he actually dropped his shoulders, he was surprised to learn how high he was holding them. Then there is particular focus on his jaw. He lets his mouth hang open and wriggles his jaw from side to side then follows that up by opening his mouth as wide as he can a number of times. His teeth and gums thank him for it and it does help alleviate the headaches.

David forces the butts of his palms into his eyes. They’re just so tired, but now that his body is a little relaxed, maybe Sleep would bless him. He actually looks forward to laying back down and pulling his jacket over him. But when he opens his eyes, amidst the self-inflicted twinkling stars that obstruct most of his sight is Julia’s mother standing in front of him. He scrambles to his feet, his coat falling to the ground.

“Police Sergeant Budd?” she says.

The stars and phantom floating shapes still obscure his vision and having elevated so suddenly, he needs a moment to settle and compose himself. He clears his throat and straightens out his jumper with a tug before offering his hand.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he says. “Yes, I’m PS Budd. ‘David’, please.”

She smiles as she clasps his hand with both of hers. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Frances Montague, Julia’s mother.”

“How is she?” He almost doesn’t want to know the answer. He emotionally braces himself.

“She’s woken up again, and she’s the most coherent she’s been. So hopefully it’s for real this time.”

He sighs heavily out his nose and realizes he hasn’t been breathing. The lack of oxygen keeps the stars around and makes the entirety of his head lightly throb. “That’s good news,” he says.

There’s no way for him to actually know that. He has nothing to compare it to, but Frances speaks with such hope that David is instantly comforted.

“It is,” she confirms. “She didn’t exactly ask for you, but something tells me that she couldn’t really do that.”

David doesn’t offer anything up.

“Right,” Frances says, bobbing her head. “Well, the doctor believes she could be discharged in a few days, so I need to go to hers to pick up a few things. Could you sit with her while I’m gone?”

Stunned, David can only nod. The corner of his mouth twitches up a bit and Frances realizes that’s as close to a smile as she will get from him. She waits for him to pick up his jacket and scarf piled up on the floor and begins to lead the way back to Julia, but she senses David halt behind her.

“Ma’am, what about Mr. Penhaligon? If Julia’s conscious, I don’t want him starting a row with me in her presence.”

Frances smiles at him with admiration and wraps her arm around his, restarting their journey.

“Concern yourself only with Julia,” she says.

They enter the corridor and Frances feels David tighten.

“Listen, about Roger: My daughter hasn’t said much, but in the brief conversation, there was some mention of you, and I realize only recently, as of minutes ago, that Roger has misled me about you. So I must apologize for not introducing myself to you sooner.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that.”

They stroll through the corridor slowly, taking their time. Mrs. Montague appears to be a woman conquering her 60s, but even at this hour in the night/morning, exhaustion wins out. It’s certainly defeating David, but he glances at the small woman still embracing his arm and feels completely safe. With nothing in their way and Frances guiding them, David closes his eyes as they walk.

He slowly fills his lungs.

_One._

He relaxes with ease.

He slowly fills his lungs.

_Two._

He relaxes with ease.

The harsh clack of the latch releasing stops his next breath. They are at her door and he is surprised to find himself standing next to a PPO. She’s a woman David’s never seen before, but she seems to recognize him and gives him an acknowledging nod.

“Sarge,” she says.

David returns the nods and refocuses, and suddenly he’s afraid of what he’ll see behind the door. The markings of his failure. He remembers only that she was covered in dust, some of it muddied with blood, but he hadn’t taken inventory of her injuries. She was in one piece—thank god—but who knows the state of her now? Shrapnel sprayed the right of her face but he doesn’t know how the wounds have healed.

David realizes what an idiot he is for not thinking to prepare himself for this moment.

But again, he never thought to look beyond the blockade.

With David preventing her from advancing into the room, Frances retreats back into the corridor and stands before him. “There’s no cause for fear,” she says. “She’s extremely lucky.” She grabs his arm and takes him inside.

He makes it one step inside before he’s frozen by the sight of her.

Julia.

It’s her as he remembers. It’s her as he sees her in his mind. In the thoughts and memories he sees as he lays to rest and closes his eyes.

As he sees her now, he’s reminded of the times he’s woken up next to her. Though few, he cherishes them. She sleeps like she did then. The rise and fall of her chest the same. Her hair, like after their nights’ sleep, is without its curls and volume. It frames her face tighter. Before, it simply draped her bare face. Now, it obscures the pallor, the gauntness, the scars.

David walks right up to her side. He studies her, starting at the foot of her bed and up her covered body, trying to figure out where he can touch her without hurting her. His eyes land back on her face. He can see just a few scars on the right side. He carefully pushes away her hair and tucks it behind her ear, revealing more of the small scars, but just a smattering of them. Better than he imagined.

Julia stirs slightly. She settles her face into his palm and hums.

“David,” she says before slinking back into sleep.

He wishes he could join her and meet her in their dreams. He’ll settle for being close to her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _"You're alive."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You're alive."_

The pain is, at best, about the same. It certainly doesn’t feel better, but thanks to whatever drug, Julia still doesn’t care, and she’s actually thankful for the circumstance. The discomfort keeps interrupting her sleep, and now that she’s returned to consciousness, she’s more aware of the rare dreams and the oft-occurring nightmares she’s been having. She would rather not be asleep to avoid the nightmares, but mostly, if she hadn’t been dreaming, then there was something— _someone_ waiting for her when she opens her eyes.

Julia hurries herself to wake but her body is slow going. She uses every bit of her burgeoning energy to force her eyelids open. The weight of them too much, they slink back down.

But she caught a glimpse of him. He’s there. David’s there. Beside her. Asleep.

The sight of him replenishes her energy. She doesn’t wake completely, but she’s opened her eyes enough to be able to admire him. Now that she’s confirmed that he’s really there, Julia does consider letting exhaustion win out, genuinely believing that she’ll be ok because David’s presence will ward off the terror. It’s just far too appealing, though, to be awake. Even if that means just watching him sleep.

He sits on a stool while the rest of him leans on the bed, his head comfortably resting next to her hip. His breathing is loud enough for her to enjoy the rhythm. Like white noise, it teams with her fatigue and pushes her toward sleep, but she forces herself to stay awake. It becomes easier as she studies David.

She examines the man that she could only dream of. He's not exactly the same as what she remembers. His hair is longer. His curls are larger, extending out more. It’s not a jarring difference in length, but she notices it. More striking is the hair on his face. A full-fledged beard. The morning golden hour sun shows her its different hues. Mostly she sees brown, like roasted hazelnuts. She can spot a few whiskers of translucent blond scattered about, but what really highlights the beard are the shades of copper.

A smile stretches across her face. This is a new look to her, and the discovery excites her. What other versions of this man is she going to come upon? She can’t wait to find out. For now, she is pleased with this more rugged David Budd before her.

Julia rests her hand on his cheek. His whiskers tickle her palm.

In an instant, David grabs her wrist as his eyes shoot open. They have that terrifying, glazed over focus about them. Julia immediately cries out in pain, but his grip just tightens with every passing second. Trying to wriggle free is futile and excruciating. She begins to panic when she realizes she’s too weak to raise her casted arm.

“David!”

He wakes and releases his devastating hold when he sees what it is he clutches. Blood floats into Julia’s IV line and seeps out the back of her hand. A trickle at first. Then a slow, steady stream.

The shock of red makes David stumble back off the stool. The panic in Julia’s eyes subsides as she assesses the situation, but she sees the look of horror in David’s face worsen.

“I’m—I think I’m ok,” she says, but she’s holding her hand away from her to keep the blood from collecting on the bed.

“I’ll get help.”

David rushes out the room and returns hurried with a, relative to him, calmer nurse.

“I woke up in a panic and tried to rip the damn thing out,” Julia lies.

She glances at David across the room, still standing by the door. He keeps his distance, hugging himself with one arm, propping up the other as he holds his fist to his lips. The terror hasn’t left him. It courses through him, continuously cycling through him. It numbs his legs. It turns his stomach. It burns his chest. It inflates his head.

He shuts his eyes and breathes.

_One._

…

_Two._

…

_Three._

…

“I think you’ll be all right, but your hand is going to be awfully sore,” the nurse announces. She’s donned gloves and has been undoing the damage David caused. “I’ll have to move the line to your arm.”

“Yes, of course,” Julia says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It happens.” The nurse rips off her gloves, satisfied with her repair and cleanup job. “Are you in any more distress? Pain? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I am a bit hungry.”

“I’ll have your breakfast delivered, and I believe all your doctors are here, I’m sure they’ll want to see you.”

“‘Doctors’,” Julia repeats.

“You’ve been through quite the ordeal, ma’am, but you’re through the worst of it.”

Julia gives a genuine, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Aisling.”

The sound of her name coming out of the Home Secretary’s mouth unprompted makes Aisling stand a little prouder and taller. As she heads out the room, she places a comforting hand on the still panicked David.

But what eases him the most is Julia looking at him without fear. It eases him and worries him at the same time.

“David, come sit back down,” she orders.

And it is very much an order.

He reluctantly walks to the bed. When he meets up with the stool he had shoved away when he stumbled off of it, he becomes particularly occupied with pushing it back to its original position with his foot. He can’t stand to see her look so forgivingly at him anymore. When he’s settled onto the stool, he altogether can’t even show his face.

Julia delicately pries his hand away from his eyes. “You’re alive,” she says, more of a realization than declaration.

David’s face lights up. “Me?” he laughs.

The brightness of his voice tickles her cheeks and the bass of his laughter warms her chest.

David’s head tilts when he realizes Julia’s actually got a point, but boy, she doesn’t know the half of it.

“Aye, you’re right: I am alive.”

“Not too worse for wear,” she says at first, but then her eyes narrow in on a notch in his left eyebrow. She reaches out, touching the scar with the back of her fingers. “But that’s new.”

David closes his eyes and relishes her touch, briefly nuzzling against her hand. He eventually turns to hide his face. In doing so, he accidentally reveals to her another scar. This one, circular, is buried in his hair just a little northeast of his right ear. It’s almost hidden by his curls, but she notices it. It’s also new.

Julia fearlessly places her hand back on his cheek, receiving a more welcoming reaction from him this time, and slowly strokes his beard. A wide smile stretches across his face. The rarity of it makes it that much more contagious. Julia smiles back, but as she admires his grin and then watches her fingers strum his whiskers, she can’t help but find the foreign scar. She resists the urge to touch it. She decides she won’t ask him about it specifically at this moment.

“Were you hurt badly?”

He wonders whether he should answer in regards to St. Matthews, which is what she means, or does he tell her about all the damage in totality, including the week and days following the bombing? That he got the scar above his eye in the explosion, but it was made worse when Aikens or one of his assholes pistol-whipped him in the same fucking spot.

“No,” David ultimately decides to say.

He settles into the comfort he feels in being with Julia. They both settle into the company of each other. It feels a little stilted at the moment, but it’s like riding a bicycle, if that bicycle is actually a unicycle, and the sidewalk they are on is riddled with hazards. Tree roots breaking through the ground, raising the concrete. Sharp cracks, nearly crevices. Potholes already filled with mucky water. But they are on the unicycle. They carefully maneuver backward at times to move forward, but the intention is to always advance nonetheless.

“Not many visible scars, but you look like hell, I do have to say.”

“Did you have to say it?” David smirks. His mind is pulled to memories of the past six weeks and any positivity in his face completely disappears. “I suppose hell is where I’ve been.” He says it lightly, but he believes himself wholeheartedly.

He spots himself in the mirror whenever he gets ready, but he doesn’t admire himself while he brushes his teeth, because the glance he gets when he walks into the bathroom is grim and more than enough to look at. He doesn’t want to look into his tired eyes and see the shock of pink and red where there should be white. He doesn’t want to notice the dark circles around them in contrast to the paleness of his skin. He doesn’t want to study just how thin his face has gotten. At least the beard compensates for that and fills him out a bit. It also cuts down his time in front of the mirror. He’s stopped shaving. He just brushes his teeth, splashes water on his face, and leaves the bathroom as quick as he can.

She notices how awful he looks but he can only hope it’s really not as bad as he’s seen himself.

“My mother says you’ve been here every day. Usually late at night, for hours at a time.” Julia sighs disappointingly. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

David suddenly realizes he was sleeping minutes ago. A solid, comfortable sleep. Comfortable for his mind, not so much his body, but comfortable regardless. At the most, it must have been four hours. Four continuous hours. He’s pleased with himself, but Julia wouldn’t find that satisfactory.

“I get some rest,” he says. “I get enough.”

Julia scoffs, rolling her eyes. The look of him tells her otherwise, but she acknowledges she is in no place to simply tell him to go home and sleep in his own bed. She doesn’t know how it’s been for him for the past month and a half. Especially if he’s been coming in the middle of the night.

Julia decides to leave the matter alone for now. “How do I look? Please do not spare me.”

David studies just about every inch of her face. He genuinely tries to assess the damage, getting his first good look at her in the sunlight and not the crude lights of her hospital room. She watches him and it doesn’t inspire much confidence in her.

“I wish I could say, ‘It looks worse than it is,’” Julia says, “but I haven’t a fucking clue.”

He’s risen to his feet and leans over her slightly to look at the right side of her face. She turns to give him a better look and he pushes her hair away to see the entirety of the damage. Most of the shrapnel wounds have closed up and are currently pink scars. Some are bruised and blue, like the ones that split her skin open. The little cluster of them starts behind her ear and goes down into her neck and encroaches her jaw. It looks like a roadmap of where the M1 and A1 nearly cross and run alongside each other as they approach London along with all the surrounding roads. In time, they will heal, lose their blue hue, and it’ll look less like a roadmap and more like marbling. The other scars will look like strange freckles. They are mostly superficial and there aren’t many. Most people probably won’t even notice.

David returns her hair to how it falls, delicately rubbing the ends of a few locks between his fingers before he begins to back away. He gives her a reassuring smile, prepared to deliver a positive assessment, but something else catches his eye. On the other side of her face, David pushes her hair back and she turns once more for him. Another scar is revealed. This one a little more pink than the others. Longer. Raised. Intentional. It starts by her temple and runs up closely along her hairline for about four inches before it hooks for another inch into her forehead and toward her face.

He pulls his hand away, her hair falls back into place, and the scar disappears. It’s a scar that served a purpose. What that was exactly, David doesn’t know. He has his guess, and if he is right, that scar might be responsible for saving Julia’s life. The same can be said for the other intentional scars on her body that he may discover later.

David does a final pass on Julia’s face. He doesn’t see the scars unless he looks for them. She’ll be able to hide the worst of them, and he’ll tell her how fortunate that ability is, especially in the times when she’ll feel insecure. On the occasions when she’ll be so low that his reassurance and empathy isn’t enough, he’ll remind her how utterly happy he is that she’s alive.

So happy that David has turn away because he’s embarrassed by the happiness pooling in his eyes.

He composes himself in the time it takes to sit back down. To dry the tears, he shoves the butts of his palms into his eyes. He even gives a stifled yawn, playing it all off as if he is still trying to wake up.

The corner of his mouth hikes up as he gazes up at her. He sees the light in her eyes and the way she looks at him. He doesn’t see the scars or the pallor. “You look wonderful, Julia.”

“You needn’t impress me,” she says with a raised brow and shake of her head. “I’m already yours.”

He tries to downturn his smirk. “Honestly,” he says with absolute seriousness. “You look great, considering. I haven’t seen you in more than a month, though, so I can’t speak to how you were in that time.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you were barred then.”

When they both remember that David actually was barred and by Roger, the flow of their conversation halts. Neither of them knows where to go from there. They certainly don’t want to discuss Roger. They also don’t want to talk about the time she’s been laid up, because neither of them have any accurate knowledge of that time. She refuses to tell him about the hallucinations and nightmares she’s come to remember, and he can’t tell her that there were possibly times she almost died.

Julia unwittingly brings her hands together. She winces and breathes in sharply when her plastered hand meets the back of her newly wounded hand. It makes David sit upright. He follows her eyes to her hands and they both spot the bruising that’s already forming around her wrist.

“If anyone asks,” Julia says, “we’ll say you grabbed me to keep me from ripping out the IV.”

David closes his eyes, shaking his head repeatedly. _Unbelievable_ , is all he can think; over and over again. _Unfuckingbelievable_. It is devastatingly crushing to him that he hurt her again, but worse, she’s already come up with a story to cover him. It doesn’t sit well with him in the slightest. He wants to physically shake the shame off his body but knows he won’t rid himself of it.

 _One_.

“David, I’m ok. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

How many times will he hear that from her? It’s already been two too many. He is disappointed, frustrated, and incredibly infuriated; all with himself.

 _Two_.

He tilts his head slowly from side to side, savoring the pull on each side of his neck.

“Would it surprise you to know that I’m getting help,” he says, “and I think I’m getting better?”

“Happily surprised,” Julia nods.

But David’s retreated within himself. Quite literally. He sits hunched over, hugging himself. His stare directed down at his feet.

Although Julia isn’t surprised by his reaction, she is still affected by it. She realizes this is what must have been on the other side of the door that night at the Blackwood. She thought she had lost him then. She did. He had retreated and disappeared. In that moment, she had lost him, and it was gutting. On the day she was to launch her bid for PM, she couldn’t stop thinking about David.

No—She couldn’t stop thinking about the absence of him, a future without him, and how upsetting a thought that was. She wasn’t going to rescue him, though. That was up to him. All she could do was offer her hand. He would have to pull himself out. She has to do the same once more.

Julia rests her hand in front of him on the bed, struggling to keep it open for him. He lifts his head only high enough to see just her hand. Her fingers relax and naturally curl around his hand when he puts it in hers. She wants to squeeze it the way she did then but finds that she has no strength. It disappoints her so much she requires a moment to suppress the frustration. She can only feebly rub his hand with her thumb and hope he remembers how tightly she held him then.

“David, I haven’t forgotten what happened the night before St. Matthew’s nor have I forgotten the decision that I eventually came to the day of. Nothing’s changed for me. Nothing will change.” When she doesn’t see any reaction from him, Julia has to gather her courage. “Unless you’ve made a different choice?”

Finally David looks up, but Julia can read nothing in his face except exhaustion, and she, herself, begins to feel fatigued. She opens her hand and slides it out from under his as she closes her eyes, disappointed. She needs extra effort to open them again and focus her vision.

“David, go hom—”

A few raps on the door rips their attentions away from each other. They watch as the door opens and a troupe of doctors and administrators enter the room. Both David and Julia sit up a little straighter. David eventually gets to his feet and steps away from the bed, which doesn’t go unnoticed by her.

“Home Secretary, very good morning to you,” a man in a full suit says. “Tony Steel, Chief Executive of Royal London Hospital. We were hoping to brief you, if now is a good time.” He looks between Julia and David and bears the load of discomfort on behalf of all the visitors in the room.

“Well, you’re all here; the whole lot of you,” she says. “Sergeant Budd was just about to head off.” She looks at David and gives him a “polite” smile. “Thank you, sergeant.”

David does well to hide the sting and gives a dutiful nod. “Ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _It unsettles David immensely, but he has no choice but to accept it. The problem is he is no closer to figuring out his personal affairs than he was the day of the bombing. All this time, he had just wanted Julia to be ok._
> 
> _“Just how exactly does my personal life affect my future here?” he asks._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their future isn’t just for them to figure out.

David opted to leave his car parked a few blocks away from the hospital and instead chose to get on the District line at Whitechapel. He figured he could use the time on the Tube to rest his eyes a little more, and he’d likely have been too distracted to drive over to New Scotland Yard anyway.

He hardly even remembers walking over to the station. He does recall letting the platform empty into two trains before he himself got on, and even then the car was still pretty full. There were a few open seats but David chose to stand at the end of the car. It would surely fill up on the way to Embankment; no point in taking a seat that someone else would put to better use.

Holding onto the rail above him, David rests his head against his arm. His eyes are closed. He could’ve easily been mistaken as being asleep. Maybe even experiencing a deep sleep. Deep enough to have nightmares. It appeared as such. He grimaced and shook his head several times throughout the journey.

But if he can’t sleep laying down, he certainly isn’t sleeping standing up. So, no, he isn’t having nightmares, but he might as well be. Rather, he’s been recalling an incredibly recent memory that is very much real. He’d give anything for it to have been a nightmare.

What an idiot he is for remaining silent. He had just looked up at her. That’s it. Didn’t even smile, the idiot. He cringes. She was so warm and supportive. And vulnerable. And he gave her nothing.

Such a daft idiot.

He cringes harder when he sees her smile in his mind, when he feels the twinge of that smile piercing him. He deserves the pain. He deserves worse, but he feels it in having betrayed her vulnerability. It’s an awful pain that hits him in his chest. Heavy and hollowing.

He tells himself that he just wasn’t in his right mind, but he knows what a lie that is. The truth is, the blank look he gave her was exactly what was going on in his head. He simply didn’t know. Until hours ago, he didn’t even know if she was going to live.

And that’s also what makes David cringe—all that he heard when he listened in on the congress in Julia’s room as he stood just outside it. The laundry list of damage done to Julia and the extensive work required to patch her up.

David had exited her room, simply stood next to the PPO without even acknowledging them, and kept his ear to the gap he held in the door.

“Skipper!”

It was absolutely the most unfortunate time for David to encounter PC Fenton. The last the two had spoke was over pints at the Red Lion where they commiserated over the loss of Kim. A week later, David had drinks with Rayburn. During their conversation, the subject was broached and Rayburn insisted that she hadn’t been the one who ratted him out to Craddock. David came to the conclusion it must have been Tom, the only other person he spent a significant amount of time with, and at the time, his head wound was more conspicuous than the scar is now. It was all confirmed when David started showing up at the hospital and Tom couldn’t look at him.

“Tom,” David had simply nodded. He turned back to the door and leaned in, catching the introductions of the doctrine.

“What are you doing?”

David held his hand up and waited to respond until the last doctor declared her name. “Just mind yours. I’m not here,” he finally said.

“Should you be doing this, skip?”

Finally, David looked at Tom. He shrugged. “Report me.”

Tom’s eyes shot down to the floor and, for a moment, David felt like a right prick. The moment passed and he went back to listening in on the briefing.

As he stands, swaying with the train, David tries to picture the intimidating crowd of people that filled the room. There were three administrators. David remembers them from the night of the explosion. There was the chief executive of the hospital, the media manager, and the surgical administrator. All of them dressed in full business ensembles while members of the doctrine wore white coats, scrubs, or business attire minus jackets. There were eight of them.

No. Nine.

There were nine doctors and surgeons. The lead trauma surgeon, the internist, the orthopedic surgeon, the orthopedist, the neurosurgeon, the neurologist, the plastic surgeon, Julia’s psychiatrist, and her GP.

There’s absurdity in so many people like that in a room that size. It was enough to field a damn football team and have a sub. They were a maze to get through on the way out. How daunting that must have been to be surrounded by all of them. David regrets giving Julia cause to dismiss him.

Julia’s GP took the lead and announced each injury and the relevant surgeon or doctor jumped in to elaborate.

A collapsed lung, a lacerated kidney, lacerated liver, and a perforated bowel took the trauma surgeons nearly 10 hours to discover and repair. In that time, she went into cardiac arrest twice. The second time, they had to halt the surgery and finish the repairs when she was more stable. David wonders if that was when someone at the hospital jumped the gun and announced her death. He has to swallow down sick when he thinks back to the moment he had thought that to be true.

Broken bones included her cheekbone, her collarbone, her elbow, her forearm, multiple ribs, and her hip. Her collarbone, forearm, and hip required surgeries in which metal plates and screws were inserted.

Julia went under again to remove the shrapnel from the entirety of the right side of her body. From her face down to her legs. Additionally, surgeries were required for the burns. The burns on the right side of her torso and small of her back amounted to just nine percent of her body but they were full thickness and required grafts.

David could _easily_ imagine what they looked like and the pain she must have been in. He can imagine it again. He squeezes his eyes closed tighter and brings his fist to his mouth. He can taste the bile.

The doctors said her reaction to the pain in her unconscious state gave them cause for concern, and so she was put into a medically-induced coma to get her through the worst of it.

_“Unfortunately, it wasn’t ideal that we had to do so not long after the first coma...”_

Twice. They had put her into a coma twice.

The first immediately followed the explosion and lengthy initial emergency surgery. She had suffered trauma to her head and her brain had swelled as a result. David had correctly deduced the reason for the scar on the left side of her face—they had opened that part of her skull to give relief to her brain. She was then put into a medically-induced coma to facilitate the reducing of the swelling. All things considered, it remarkably took only a couple days, but as she began to come out of it, her body couldn’t handle the trauma of the surgeries and the pain of the burns. She was put back into a medically-induced coma, and that’s where she remained for weeks, during which she suffered a number of complications and infections.

In total, she had at least seven surgeries, but David’s sure she had more. He simply lost count.

His grip on the rail tightens. His eyes still closed. His jaw clamped shut. He shakes his head.

It’s a miracle she’s alive.

The doctors were proud of how Julia was coming along. Mostly they were proud with themselves but impressed enough by Julia to share credit with her. She was healing nicely. Internally, everything appeared to be in proper working order again. She impressed them with her cognition; her response to the resident when she woke up the night before amused the neurologist when the exchange was relayed to her.

To confirm the doctors’ new prognoses, they would need to run a number of tests, but they saw no reason to keep her in the hospital for more than another couple of days. Getting her away from the hospital (to prevent any future infections) and starting the physical therapy phase of her recovery was paramount. The rest of the journey was still long but it was looking more clear.

The Embankment announcement comes over the speaker and David finally “wakes up.” The car has filled with people since Whitechapel. He hadn’t even noticed that he had been standing shoulder to shoulder with riders, and now many queue up at the doors and begin to file out. David follows the herd of suits. The group lengthens and thins out as they reach the Victoria Embankment and walk south along the Thames. David lags behind, still thinking about what the rest of Julia’s journey exactly entails.

David follows the other stragglers into Met HQ at New Scotland Yard. Many of the people who arrived ahead of him have already shed their scarves and thick coats. He does the same as he ascends the stairs a single step at a time. He’s early, but he won’t mind waiting. The past four and a half weeks of his life has been waiting.

He takes a familiar seat outside the office. A new occupant’s name has been on the door for weeks now. Instead of “CS Lorraine Craddock”, the placard says “CS Raymond Ledley”. It was a fantastic surprise and immense relief that the new chief super was David’s then-chief inspector from when he first joined the force. It was because of Ledley that David set out to join RaSP. David was only disappointed that he had saddled his old new boss with a mess of conduct inquiries.

“It’s an open door police for you,” Ledley says as he marches toward David and his office, “but maybe give me a ring further in advance so I can actually be here with the door open.”

David rises to his feet. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to make you rush.”

“Oh, I didn’t, Budd,” Ledley smiles. He unlocks the door and leads the way into his office. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

David settles into the chair he has become familiar with in the office he has spent far too much time in for his liking.

Ledley plops his briefcase onto his desk and proceeds to shed his extra layers. All while holding his takeaway coffee, sipping it every chance he can. “It’s not like I could’ve rushed anyway. Queue was out the cafe and I was too committed by the time I got annoyed. So next time, give me a ring and the opportunity to ask you to fetch this for me.” He gives his cup a wiggle.

David smirks. Coffee might’ve been a good idea. Food definitely would’ve been. Probably a trip home for a bit of freshening up as well. Because David can see what his mentor is thinking.

“You came from the hospital,” Ledley says.

It’s not a question. It’s a confident statement of fact that David silently confirms with a single nod. So starts their standoff. Ledley sighs heavily, shaking his head. He leans back far in his chair simply staring David down. For a while, David holds the eye contact, but eventually he surrenders. He looks down at his hands clasped together. He becomes fixated with fiddling with his left thumb, distracting himself to keep from continuing the conversation.

“The Home Secretary woke up,” he finally decides to say.

Ledley’s eyebrows rise with interest. “That’s brilliant, Dave. Really fantastic.” He lets the announcement settle in for a moment and thinks about his old friend across from him. “You’re really just gonna sit there, though, and tell me, ‘The _Home Secretary_ woke up’?”

“Sir?”

“Ever since we—Well, ‘you’—Ever since _you_ got Aikens and the lot, you’ve been at the hospital every day, Budd. For at least an hour if it’s during the day, but mostly you go in at night and camp out. Six hours on average.” Ledley notices the offense on David’s face. “No, don’t give me that look. No one’s spying on you. My officers just report to me what they observe. Hard not to notice the vagabond lying in the corner of the hospital lobby.”

David does realize he has no right to be offended. He threw caution to the wind going to the hospital every day. Every time he shows up, he doesn’t even consider what the uniformed officers or the PPOs and CPOs think. Never even considers that they will talk to one another, to their superiors.

He doesn’t know how to respond to Ledley, but the boss isn’t finished.

“Now, I ask my officers for their discretion with this information and encourage them to not deduce too much, but that’s part of the job, innit?” Ledley feels terrible for straddling the line between supervisor and friend, switching at an instant, but it’s the latter that motivates him to inform and prepare David the best he can. “I genuinely believe we’ve got a good lot here, but they share a pint after hours and it’s only human nature to gossip and speculate.”

David shifts uncomfortably.

“Look,” Ledley sighs. “I bring this up because she’s not _just_ the ‘Home Secretary’ to you, Dave. One: she’s not your principal anymore. Not now, and not if you return to service. May I remind you: You’re not suspended because you went rogue; you’re suspended because of gross mis—”

“I remember!” David blurts out impatiently. Embarrassed, he clears his throat and regains his composure. “Sir.”

Ledley glares at him with a tilted head but ultimately gives him a pass. “Which brings me to point number two,” he carries on, “it is very clear that she is more to you than your former principal. A guilt-ridden PPO may check in on his injured principal _occasionally_. Every day? Taking up residence at the hospital? No, that’s not just guilt you feel.

“Those two things together: An affair with a Cabinet Minister that isn’t as simple as that,” he says, “compounded with the fact that you’re responsible for the takedown of organized crime’s infiltration into the Met. I mean, fucking hell, Dave. This is unprecedented for us. We haven’t a goddamn clue how to proceed. You need to face the consequences but at the same time, you deserve a medal.” Ledley begins to exhaust himself. He rubs eyes and then downs the rest of his coffee. “If we had some clarity from you, it would be helpful. I’m sorry we have to dig into your private, personal matters like this.”

It unsettles David immensely, but he has no choice but to accept it. The problem is he is no closer to figuring out his personal affairs than he was the day of the bombing. All this time, he had just wanted Julia to be ok.

“Just how exactly does my personal life affect my future here?” he asks.

Ledley hesitates. “I think you know one scenario will make this easier than the other,” he says. He sees the disappointment in David’s face and watches him for a moment with great sympathy. “Dave, look. I want you back. I want you back focused. I can’t have this tormented Sergeant Budd. The job is tortuous enough. I need you to have happiness outside of it.” Ledley sighs. His shoulders have dropped. He shakes his head repeatedly. “Dave, I don’t know what your future holds. All I can tell you is that I’m going to fight for you. Whatever you decide.”

“If you could wager a guess: what do you think the chances are I return?”

David’s moroseness has spread to his boss. The normally jovial chap is as sullen as he is.

“I don’t know what DPS will decide. Who the fuck knows about IOPC? Last I heard, both were nearing the ends of their investigations. However, now that the Home Secretary’s awake, I suppose they’ll want to speak with her.”

David’s eyes widen. “Shit. Not only that—IOPC will start their investigation into her,” he realizes. “The current investigations by them and DPS are into my conduct regarding St. Matthew’s and Aikens, but regarding the affair, DPS is responsible for investigating my role in it.”

“But the Home Secretary is under the purview of the IOPC,” Ledley says, continuing David’s thought. “So, yes, you’re right: they will likely start a new, separate investigation into the Home Secretary for possible abuse of power. She might not be the Home Secretary to anyone.”

David buries his face in his hands, feeling and accepting the guilt over jeopardizing Julia’s future.

He thinks about the multiple interviews with both investigation teams. Hours and hours of them occurring over multiple days. He can’t even separate the ones with the DPS from the ones with the IOPC; they all merge together in his head. It was déjà vu every time he went in. The same questions were asked. The same answers were given. Every moment of his life since the first of October was scrutinized. David no longer has any secrets, which is actually pretty freeing. It just quickly became too tiresome and too taxing on a person who isn't sleeping properly. It also didn’t sit right with him that Vicky had to be interrogated; for her part in Pope Square to her knowledge about her husband’s affair. She absolved David of any guilt, but it infuriated him that someone he cared about was subjected to the kind of questioning he had to answer to.

And now, it was going to happen all over again, from the start. To him. To Julia. The Right Honourable Julia Montague, Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department. It was going to be news for all of the United Kingdom to follow.

David’s jaws tighten. “Anything else, sir?”

“How’s therapy going? Dr. Nicholson has reported progress.”

“Aye,” David says, settling back into his seat. “I’d agree.”

“She have you on any medication?”

David’s eyes shoot down to his watch. “Shit. I, er, need to...” He twists to search the pockets of his coat on the back of the chair where he fishes for his bottle of prescribed meds. He quickly sorts one out and pops it into his mouth, swallowing it dry. “My apologies, sir,” he says when he turns back around, but Ledley forgives him with a wave. “She has me on 5mg of Cipralex. We’re still trying to figure out what works best. I think it helps with the anxiety, but it might be contributing to my inability to sleep.”

“And to help with that?”

“Beyond the therapy, the doc recommends natural remedies.” David’s cheeks flush with embarrassment when he notices the subtle relief in Ledley’s face, but unfortunately, he has to learn to take those looks in stride. He was suicidal; it's no secret anymore. He clears his throat and straightens his posture. “I don’t want to die, sir,” he says. “I may be prepared to for the job, but certainly not by my own hand if I can help it.” He feels his face warm. His palms go clammy, but it’s the perfect excuse to feel his chest. Still just his jumper there. “Wearing a suicide vest made me realize that.”

The chief superintendent doesn’t know what to say. He’s ashamed for doubting his friend, and for having felt justified in his worry.

“It’s all right, sir. I don’t blame you,” David says. “And I think sleep will come.” In fact, he feels confident about that. “I got a good few hours this morning.”

“That’s really good, David,” Ledley says, leaning forward on his desk. “I want you to be well and I’m glad you’re heading in that direction.”

“Me too, sir. Is there anything else?”

“This was such a good note to end on,” Ledley groans as he drops back into his chair. “I wish I hadn’t saved this for last. It’s not bad news, though,” he makes sure to announce. “It’s just not a great button to our conversation.”

“Sir?”

Ledley is reluctantly to speak. “The inquests into Thornton Circus and St. Matthew’s are going to happen sometime at the start of the year.”

The unmistakable confusion on David’s face is no exaggeration. “Already?” he questions. He grabs his left thumb and somehow he hopes that will stave off the panic. “How is that possible?”

“The MPS corruption scandal has forced its way to the forefront. The Commish would like to close Thornton Circus and St. Matthew’s to provide some confidence to the public. You know, demonstrate that we’ve got good coppers—you—and that we are in fact doing our job in spite of the interests of others.” Ledley tries to point out the silver linings for David. “The families might be able to move on sooner this way. They won’t be kept waiting. They won’t have to revisit all this in a year, or longer, which I’ve seen in cases like this.”

David continuously pulls his thumb from his grasp as though he’s trying to crack the knuckle. It popped maybe 20 pulls ago.

“I’m not sure how many families will attend,” Ledley continues. “I know that Terry Whildon’s loved ones want to be spared the details, but I believe Tahir Mahmood’s family as well as PC Knowles’s family would like some clarity. This might bring them closer to closure, and that’s the next best thing we can do for them. Maybe it’ll help for you, too.”

David grabs his mouth with the entirety of his hand. He shakes his head. Divulging the memories to Dr. Nicholson and providing the details to all the investigating officers had been agonizingly gut-wrenching. It took hours to pull basic details from him. The thought of sitting before a judge and giving a retelling of St. Matthew’s already starts to fill him with dread. How the hell is he supposed to recount the details of Tahir’s and Kim’s deaths in front of their families? How is he going to be capable of doing so without feeling the immense guilt he can’t shake?

David pinches the bridge of his nose and hides his face as he tries to breathe.

 _One_.

Ledley literally reaches out for David, desperate to grab him before losing him. “Hey,” he says, shaking his hand in front of him to steal back his attention. “Dave. David, look at me.” He receives David’s teary-eyed focus. “Listen, you did not put a foot wrong, all right? You are not on trial. That’s not even what this is. It’s just an inquest, and it’s just procedural and technical facts. You got it?”

David nods as he chews the inside corner of his mouth.

“Talk to Dr. Nicholson about this, yeah? Ask her if you’ll be ok to do the inquest. If not, then let’s see if we can get the coroner to postp—”

But Ledley was right—If the circumstances were different and it was Julia’s mother waiting for the inquest into St. Matthew’s, he wouldn’t want her waiting any length of time to begin healing.

And he’s willing to try anything to heal himself.

“No, you’re right, sir. Closure. I’ll work on it with Dr. Nicholson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _David wasn’t just company; he didn’t just dispatch her loneliness._
> 
>  
> 
> [Author's note: Apologies for the wait. Thank you as always for reading! <3]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia struggles.

She was helped into a wheelchair. It was difficult. Awkward. Embarrassing. Exhausting. Nauseating. They didn’t even bother trusting her to try standing on her own. Good thing. She could feel nothing but pins and needles in her legs. She can’t even remember touching the ground. She can only remember the way her body ached when she finally settled into the wheelchair. The tingling in her legs began to strangle them and she couldn’t move them enough even in her sitting state to get the blood circulating. Her right hip aches something so awful that it isn’t painful anymore. It is such a constant pain that Julia is already accustomed to it, which frustrates her all the more, and that had magnified the throbbing in her head. On top of it all, her entire body just felt dreadfully weak.

None of it has ceased and none of it feels like it will. It discourages Julia. It terrifies her. It makes her sick all over again.

They carted her all over the hospital. She was helped onto one slab for x-rays and the machine was shifted to different positions all over her body. Back into the wheelchair she went and over to the CT machine where shes was placed onto another slab. This one slid her body into the giant cylindrical computer and she was scanned in minutes. By that point, she had enough strength to mostly help herself up but was then still maneuvered like a Barbie doll by the orderly and eased into the wheelchair.

The final stop on the diagnostic tour was the MRI machine. It looked similar to the CT machine but she was forewarned that the machine was “unpleasantly loud,” as the tech described it, and would take half an hour. That was hardly enough to prepare her. She was provided with headphones and music, which should have given her more insight as to how awful it would be, but for a brief moment, as she glided into the machine, Julia genuinely thought time in the machine would be an opportunity to rest.

The humming and the rumbling as the machine started up made her heart race. She took relaxed, measured breaths to try to calm herself, but then came the first blare. The first blare of the massive magnet made her squeal in terror and leap out of her skin. She heard it so clearly despite the music in her ears. She felt it so intensely, right to her bones. She flinched again with the next blare. The whooshing of her own blood in their vessels filled her ears instead of the music. She did her best to breathe. Controlled breaths in and out through her mouth that only made the trembling of her body more apparent.

“Julia, we need you to lie straight and still, please,” the MRI tech said over the intercom.

The nurse just outside the machine placed a comforting hand on her leg. Her right leg. That terrified her even more. In the viewing mirror within the machine, Julia could see the nurse peer inside, mouthing what she assumed were words of encouragement, but still, Julia began to tear up.

“Are you all right, Julia?” the tech asked.

Tears spilled but she was determined. “Yes. Keep going.”

“I need you to be as still has possible, please.”

Julia focused all her energy on keeping her body still but it resulted in full body tremors. The tears continued streaming down her temples. She could feel them soak into the cushion of the headphones and begin to spread to her cheeks and jaw. The discomfort was growing worse and more inescapable.

After the blaring came the horn-like blasts. Louder. More jarring. Penetrating. Julia convulsed with every eruption and was startled into more tears and even a wail. Guttural and unexpected it had surprised even Julia.

“Stop!” she demanded.

The horns ceased. The humming silenced. The pounding in her head and the thumping in her chest remained. The nurse was there to greet her with a comforting look and touch, but Julia simply laid back and cried.

“It’s ok,” the nurse cooed. “You’re all right.”

As convincing and warm and well-intentioned as she was, Julia knew she was wrong.

It took her some time to come down from the panicked adrenaline rush, which had become fueled with fury when they informed her that they could skip the MRI altogether because the CT scan and x-rays would possibly be enough for the doctors. The anger was misplaced; she knew that. It wasn’t any one person she was angry with. It wasn’t a person at all. The helplessness and her new weakened mental fortitude were the subjects of her ire.

She calmed herself before they resorted to a sedative. The toll the whole ordeal took on her, though, it felt as though she might as well have been on one. She certainly must have come close to passing out. Unfortunately, back in her hospital room, she wasn’t allowed to succumb to her fatigue.

The moment she pulled up the blanket and placed it in her lap to settle, the orthopedic surgeon himself stopped by with the saw and buzzed off her cast. He delicately handled her arm like it was a precious artifact and admired his work, but what Julia saw was a pale, withered limb. When she examined her left arm to compare, she realized they weren’t all that different from one another. They were both thin and frail; it was just that the right one was now decorated with shrapnel scars and one long, precise scar that started mid-forearm and ran north midway up her upper arm.

Before leaving, the surgeon informed her that one of the orthopedic nurses would stop by and get her up and walking. Julia glared at the door after he disappeared behind it. It’s already unbearable sitting upright and shifting this way and that. The thought of being on her legs and walking is absolutely dreadful.

She was exhausted, in pain, annoyed, bored, and lonely. Each new visitor did nothing to satisfy her. All were members of the hospital staff, and each one Julia feared would be the nurse that would force her to get out of bed and onto her weak, aching legs.

She had some hope every time the door opened, but when it was never David, Julia sulked more and more. She didn’t let on, though, to the nurses that came and helped her with a bath or drew her blood or the one that had to collect a urine sample. She was overly grateful to the nurse that inserted a new IV line even though it no longer contained morphine, just ibuprofen instead. It would have to do. It was certainly better than nothing. Morphine really would have been better, though.

Every moment she was left on her own, she wallowed. In her pain. In her helplessness.

The nurses have stopped coming by, allowing for Julia to fall deeper into her sullenness. She studies herself in her bed, but nearly every bit of her is covered. Under the blanket. Concealed by her hospital gown. She’s only seen the marks of the explosion on her arm. Not the ones on her face, on her torso, or on her legs.

The doctors explained all of the extensive work they had to do, but it all washed over her as if it hadn’t happened to her. For as weak as she feels and as much pain as she’s in, none of it seems like the result of what the doctors had described to her.

During the sponge bath, she was terrified to look at herself. She’s now seen the scar that put her arm back together, but not the one that opened her hip or the one that fixed her collarbone. She’s afraid to look down and see the scar that runs down between her breasts, where they had to open her up when her heart stopped for the second time during her first surgery. Julia doesn’t even want to think about that scar, the one they made when they had to rummage around inside of her to find burst organs and bleeding.

She doesn’t have to imagine what the result of one particular procedure looks like. She’s seen it on David and knows hers will be very similar. She can already feel those scars through her gown and remembers what David’s felt like. Her grafts haven’t hardened yet like his but they will and she isn’t bothered. Those scars she is unafraid of.

As foreign as her own body has become to herself, so too has the rest of the world. So on top of her pain and her helplessness, Julia also wallows in her ignorance of the world that continued moving on while she slept for six weeks.

The television was on for her when she was returned to her room but the noise and the movement on the screen was too much for her. She settled for the chatter that the nurses provided. It was delightful, really. She learned about where they were from and their families. She was warmed by their plans for Christmas and their traditions. One nurse recollected how her Hanukkah had ended with a proposal from her partner. However, as much as she enjoyed imagining all their holiday tableaus, particularly the delicious dishes that were had and will be had, Julia was no closer to learning about what had been happening in her world.

She can’t remember how much of her St. Matthew’s speech she had gotten through and she doesn’t want to spend any time trying to figure it out. She’s sure she had delivered enough of it, though, that the tone and intent must have been picked up on.

Yet, it was a false start. Possibly all for naught.

Julia had wanted to boldly step out from behind Vosler. To stand taller and stronger than him. She was ready. She was prepared. She was determined to do good for the nation. Good by her means. That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? Is the bombing responsible for interrupting her takeover? Or did she get in her own way?

Her mind drifts to how everything must have been received. She wonders about the headlines that must have been used and rolls her eyes with each new one she can think up.

What will the headlines be when word gets out that she’s awake? The hospital’s media manager said they would continue to protect her status and give positive but vague updates to the public, but in a couple days time, the doctors plan to discharge her and she’ll have to face the press.

She imagines standing before a crowd of cameras, microphones, and lights. Julia laughs at herself. There’s no way she’ll be able to stand, certainly not confidently. Realistically, she’ll be meekly sitting in a wheelchair, and the cameras, microphones, and lights will all be angled down at her.

Julia tries sitting up straight, practicing for the moment. She keeps her back upright but surrenders seconds later. She begins to dread the inevitable.

And who will be beside her? The proud hospital staff for sure, and there’s some comfort in that prospect, but they’re essentially strangers. Her mother will be there. The image of her tiny mother surrounded by all those white coats does put an amused smile onto Julia’s face.

Maybe that will be enough. The doctors and her mother.

However, David continues to appear beside her. One moment, he’s in a suit with his hands clasped in front of him. The next, he’s in jeans, a hoodie, and a jacket. Her hand in his. Julia closes her eyes and squeezes them tight to make him disappear.

Even if David had told her that he had chosen her, he still can’t stand beside her in front of the world this soon. If it turns out he hasn’t chosen her, then fine. Fine. She just has to crack on. She has long since gotten used to being alone.

Except David wasn’t just company; he didn’t just dispatch her loneliness.

Julia’s eyes shoot open and to the door as the knob turns. Her heart races, sending a surge of adrenaline mixed with ibuprofen, dread, excitement, and hope all throughout her body.

Frances appears, causing Julia’s face to stretch wide.

“Mummy.”

“It has been a very long time since I’ve heard that,” Frances smiles.

She enters the room with full totes over both shoulders. She unloads them at her daughter’s bedside and prioritizes greeting Julia with a tight embrace and kiss on the forehead, which makes Julia’s grin grow even wider. The relief and awe she sees in her mother’s face brings her genuine happiness and, for a few moments, Julia thinks she just might be ok.

“I ran into one of your doctors,” Frances says. “She said they’ve briefed you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here, darling.”

“It’s all right. Did you get some rest?”

“Wonderful rest, but don’t worry about me. Where’s David? Was he here for the briefing?”

Julia shifts uncomfortably but pretends to prop herself more upright. “No, he had to go.”

For a moment, Frances’s eyes narrow with skepticism, but she carries on and begins to unpack the bags. “I just brought you leisurewear. I hope that’s all right.”

“It sounds lovely,” Julia says.

It was more than lovely. Her brain and nerve endings were finally connecting properly again and Julia has grown irritated by the roughness of the hospital gown and the itchiness of the blankets. It all feels unpleasantly foreign. She looks forward to the comfort of her clothes.

Frances pulls a gray cardigan from one of the bags and helps Julia put it on. She prepares to guide her daughter’s right arm through the sleeve but is frozen by the state of it.

“I know, Mum, but it’s ok.”

Frances swallows her emotion and lovingly pats Julia’s arm before helping it through the cardigan. She leans to work on the left arm but is once again halted by its appearance. This time, it isn’t scars that alarm her, but bruises instead.

“Goodness! Julia, these are new!”

“It’s fine,” Julia says, turning her arm to conceal the bruising, but no matter how she positions her arm, some of the bruising always shows. “I’m fragile right now, that’s all.”

Ordinarily, Frances would be quick to challenge her daughter, but she can so clearly see that Julia wouldn’t engage with her nor did it appear that she would be entirely forthcoming. So she carries on, caring for her daughter as much as Julia will allow her to. She realizes the IV line prevents Julia from wearing the sweater properly anyway. She simply drapes it over Julia’s shoulder and then drops into the chair to the side, exhausted by what she has seen, as little but alarming as it is.

Maybe her mother had gotten a good rest at her flat, but it will take a whole lot more to restore Frances’s quiet but typically ever-apparent resoluteness that Julia knew her mother to possess. Instead, she sees too much weariness and worry for anyone to bear.

“If I’m moved to the rehab center before the weekend,” Julia starts, “I want you to go back home, Mother.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Mum, please. This past month and a half must have been so difficult on you.” Julia begins to think of the physical toll it must have taken on her mother and becomes terribly concerned. “Please go home, have Auntie Georgia look after you for a bit, and then bring her and the rest back here next week and we’ll spend Christmas together.”

It’s bizarre to think that Christmas is just a week away. Around this time, her schedule would be jam packed with events in her constituency as well as all across London in her capacity as Home Secretary. There were various holiday breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Christmas concerts and shows. A Nativity play or two. Functions with pensioners’ groups and/or veterans. Visits to schools, hospitals, and charities. It was absolutely the busiest time of the year and also the most fulfilling. Despite the holiday fatigue that accumulated throughout the month of December, Julia thoroughly enjoyed engaging with the people she met. Not only were they great reminders of her purpose, but she relished in the social interactions and joys during a season that exacerbated her loneliness.

At the end of the day, she’d return home to her flat greeted by the wreath she would put up on her door. It is a gorgeous Christmas wreath given to her by her mother adorned with pine cones and holly berries, a beautiful bow of deep red ribbon, and gold and silver baubles so glittery that, even after featuring it year after year, Julia would be dealing with the sparkly flecks well into January. It’s a wreath that would lead any visitor or passer-by to believe that the flat must have been as festive and quintessentially Christmas-y as the wreath was.

Only it wasn’t.

Inside, Julia’s home looked the same as it did throughout the year. She made an effort her first Christmas alone. Garland intertwined with a string of lights laid out on the mantle where a stocking hung. Fragrant candles on just about every flat surface; even unlit, their aroma gave off the impression of walking into a gingerbread house in the middle of a dense cedar forest. Glass cylinders filled with baubles or pine cones painted with fake snow flanked the wreath centerpiece on her dining table. Bows of ribbon adorned the walls. The focal piece, though, was a two-foot tall Christmas tree on display on the coffee table. The lights made it glisten like gold, its baubles were adorably proportionate, and sitting atop it was the beautiful Moravian star lantern her father had crafted for Julia’s very first Christmas. It adorned every tree every subsequent year of her life.

However, with Julia’s busy schedule, she almost always arrived home too late to bother with turning on the lights in the garland, or igniting the wicks of the candles, or stuffing any gift that could reside in the stocking in the stocking, or admiring the dining table centerpiece because either she had already eaten supper or it was too late to sit down for a meal. Tragically, the lantern was illuminated the first night it was erected and then never again for the rest of the season.

By mid-January, Julia finally got around to asking her housekeeper to pack away all the decorations and have them sent to her mother. Some years Julia was able to make it to Gloucestershire to spend Christmas or at least Boxing Day with her family. There, she would see that the worthiness of the lantern resided with her mother and not her.

So there was never any point to decorating the flat after that. Who would it be for? Her? The wreath was enough.

This year is going to be different, though. She’ll put up the wreath and decorate the flat like that first Christmas. She’ll fill her home with family and laughter and love. She looks forward to it.

So long as she can get out of the rehab center for Christmas.

Frances smiles at her daughter excited at the prospect of spending the holiday with her daughter once again.

“Here you are laid up,” she says, “and you’re worried about me.”

“Well, I’m certain you’ve done enough worrying for the rest of your life. It’s my turn now.”

Julia reaches out, asking for her mother’s hand. Any time she needed it, her mother’s hand was there for her. She remembers being a child and how it felt to slide her hand into hers or, as she grew older, to simply envelope her mother’s hand with her own.

She thinks back to herself at four, going to Cheltenham Racecourse for the first time and being scared of the horses. Julia had forced her hand into her mother’s grasp and hid behind her arm. Then years later, when she had gathered the courage to saddle up, her mother was there leading the pony and holding her hand. She smiles remembering herself as a little girl in Mass, unwilling to stand any longer and crouching down next to Frances, but still holding onto her pinkie. When she waited for her GCSEs and A Level results, it was Frances’s hand that suffered Julia’s nervous then celebratory grip, and yet again, when she discovered she had been admitted to UCL. And the memory that lives the most vividly in Julia’s mind is the way the leather of her mother’s glove felt against her palm and around her fingers as they held hands and watched her father’s casket lower into the ground.

For a long time now, it’s been just the two of them. The resolve of her mother after her father died remained steadfast throughout the years, and it really was all Julia needed. She looked to the example that was her mother when her own marriage ended and Julia knew how to live on even if a love ended.

Now there was this other person who had entered her life and felt as important to her as her mother, upending her and her life, but Julia would know how to live on even if this love ended. She just didn’t want it to.

Frances puts her hand in her daughter’s and Julia is comforted by the light touch. It pains her to send her mother away, but she just can’t have Frances around taking on the burden of looking after her.

“The rehab center will take care of me,” Julia tells her. “There’s nothing left for you to do here.”

“I can always find something to do,” Frances says, “but you’re right: I should go home and make sure Georgia is looking after the animals properly.”

“I do hope none of them have died,” Julia jokingly grimaces.

Frances playfully slaps her daughter’s hand and starts rummaging through one of the totes. “I figured you would want these.”

She places a large stack of newspapers on Julia’s lap. Knowing her mother, Julia is sure she is in possession of the whole newsstand. She is excited to dive in and thankful that her mother still encourages information gathering from all sources to hopefully form a more rounded perspective, but Julia knows some riffraff will still have found its way into the pile.

Julia studies the top of the stack. The photos are clear but that is it. She recognizes the lines of text but they subtly shift from being relatively distinctly formed words to blurred blobs and back again. Words disappear completely if she isn’t looking directly at them. As she tries to focus her eyes, they flitter and the words tremble along with them.

The neurologist had cautioned her that due to the brain trauma, basic brain functions have likely been affected. Amongst the concerns he had was vision. He mentioned the problems she might encounter, all of which they would test for tomorrow, but even with his warnings, discovering her inability to read was terrifying.

She tries to contain and ease her panic only causing her eyes to reactively tear up. She dries them with frantic, repeated swipes of her hands.

“Julia, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

She takes a breath and tries to blink her eyes dry, which works well enough for her to carry on. The words on the papers are still unclear but Julia can at least recognize the names of the newspapers with their distinct designs. She starts to organize the papers, her confidence growing more and more as she glances over all the front pages. The large headlines begin to resemble headlines. She pulls _The Telegraph_ from a few papers deep and places it on top of the stack and then slides _The Guardian_ behind it. Julia comes across _The Daily Mail_ and her eyes drift toward her mother. Frances is occupied with the contents of the totes, so Julia grabs the paper and covertly tosses it off her bed. She cringes when it crashes down to the ground, alarming Frances.

“Nothing to worry about. Just adverts and other rubbish.”

“That was _The Daily Mail_ , wasn’t it?”

Julia scrunches her nose and nods.

“I don’t know why I bother.”

“Neither do I,” Julia smirks.

She goes back to the papers and flips through each one, hoping the letters and words have come together and rested on the pages properly. They continue to come in and out of focus and disappear altogether before appearing again. She acknowledges the loitering panic residing within her, but there is legitimately nothing she can do at the moment to fix her brain. She closes her eyes and rubs her temples anyway. In doing so, she grazes her craniotomy scar, startling herself. She snatches her hand from her face. The panic intermingles with insecurity to become frustration. She looks back at the newspapers and shoves them away from her, sending them cascading down her legs.

“Julia?”

“Sorry,” her voice cracks.

Frances stands to comfort her daughter, pushing her hand through Julia’s hair, delighting her. Yet, tears fall from her eyes. She felt them coming but was so distracted by trying to pinpoint what prompted them that she didn’t bother to rid them before they overflowed. It is just everything all at once that is responsible for the tears. Everything Julia is aware of and all that she still has to learn. It is the discomfort. It is the weariness. It is the headache. It is the heartache.

A knock on the door wakes her. She forces away the pain as a man pops his head in.

Julia grinds her teeth. The orthopedic nurse has arrived with a walker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _David scoffs. “Can you blame them? Would you reinstate me?”_
> 
> _“Yes,” she says without hesitation. She begins to grow angry at the prospect of DPS or IOPC handing him the most severe consequence and dismissing him without notice. She becomes slightly panicked at the odds stacked against him. There must be something he can do._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David sits with a friend.

The always unsettling buzzing interrupts their meeting. David silences the vibrating after examining his phone but Ledley shoos him away with his hand.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says. “At a more reasonable time. Lunch?”

“Sounds good, sir.”

David accepts the call before walking through the door but holds off on actually answering until he’s well into the corridor.

“Hey, Vic.”

“You missed the school run. Are you all right?”

He feels awful about the concern in her voice. “I’m really sorry. I should have called.” He grits his teeth disappointed in himself for not having thought about the kids. He looks around him and sees that he’s put enough distance between himself and Ledley’s office. “I overslept.”

Not a lie. Not the whole truth, either.

“You got some sleep?!” Her cheeriness makes him smile. “That’s great!”

“Yeah,” he agrees, nodding despite her inability to see him. “It was good. It felt good.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

A silence settles between them, but it’s comfortable; the two of them just carrying on in each other’s company even if it is through the phone. It’s a familiar but almost-forgotten feeling being able to have this silence with Vicky again. Lately, it’s become less forgotten.

He imagines her walking on a catwalk in King’s Cross Hospital the way he currently does in Scotland Yard. She’s due to start her eight-hour shift looking after all the patients who’ve just come out of surgeries. Sometimes he wonders what it would have been like if Julia would have been taken to King’s Cross instead of Royal London, but what David pictures is never all that different from his time at Royal London—he imagines himself trying to sleep in some corner.

“I’m gonna let you go,” he says. “I’ll fetch the kids later and see you then.”

“Ok. See you at home.”

Vicky knows how he spends his time. She knows that he goes to the hospital every day. He doesn’t hide that he worries about Julia. He couldn’t if he tried. Vicky’s been understanding regardless, and her renewed patience with him hasn’t worn thin like before. He notices a change in her and it worries him.

For all of that, David feels guilty. Just another thing to work on with Dr. Nicholson.

“Could I see you before Friday? The sooner the better,” David taps into his phone.

He leans on the glass railing and peers down into the atrium of Met Police HQ. He studies the floors above him. He glances over his shoulders at the people moving behind him as they start their descent down the stairs. Everywhere he looks, he sees activity. Most people stride with determination from one destination to the next. Some meander. Others hold conference outside office doors. A sprinting bobby catches his attention but swiftly disappears out of view.

David studies everyone around him. They all seem to move with a purpose, to exist with a purpose, even the few that loiter like he does.

Determining his own purpose proves to be difficult.

There’s an energy in the building that does excite him. He remembers feeling it when he visited New Scotland Yard for the first time. He hadn’t even been back in the country and discharged from the army a month when he decided to look into the Metropolitan Police. Vicky questioned whether it was too soon for him to embark on a new career, especially one as dangerous as the police, but David had genuinely been enthralled by the promise. He realizes now that he was grasping for something to propel him every day. That’s what the energy did for him. He felt it at Met HQ and again, every day, at RaSP HQ. It used to be the spark that jump-started his shifts.

David hasn’t felt that spark in weeks. He doesn’t know if he will again.

His phone quakes in his hand. Dr. Nicholson’s fantastic at responding.

“Emergency? Call me. Otherwise, Wednesday? 9am,” he reads.

“See you then,” he types.

He shoves his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and starts descending down the stairs. He simply drops a foot onto each step as he suits up to brave the December cold. He doesn’t know when it happened, but David’s softened to the weather. Maybe it’s because of the weight loss. He’s much leaner than he was this time last year, but that’s not even to say that’s when he first started losing weight. He wraps his scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into his jumper, and when he throws on his pea coat, he holds it closed tight for a moment before eventually buttoning it up. He hasn’t even reached the ground floor of the building yet but he can already feel the cold and he prepares for it because now his singular focus is getting back out there and to the hospital.

He wonders how Julia will receive him. He wonders _if_ she even will. He cringes again thinking about his reaction to her question. He just shut down. It’s become a real problem, and yet another thing he needs to work on with his doctor as soon as possible. For everyone in his life, it couldn’t happen sooner.

“David!”

Startled, he slips off the lip of the step, sliding down the next couple and catching himself on the railing before his bottom hits the ground. He looks up a few stairs behind him and Rayburn is staring down at him in disbelief. Her expression turns to that of amusement as he continues to cling to the railing. She backtracks the few stairs she’s climbed up and helps David get back to his feet. She actually shouldn’t be so surprised by David’s lack of focus as of late. She encounters it quite often.

“Hiya, Lou.”

“You all right?” she laughs.

“Yeah.” He holds his hand to his chest and feels his racing heart. “Just catch me back on the landing there next time, will you?”

They both look behind them just a few stairs up at the large landing where he was safe from wiping out.

“I did,” Louise says.

“Oh.”

She sees the discouragement on his face and pushes the conversation forward. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes widen. “Did you get reinstated?”

David’s comforted by and appreciative of the hope in Louise’s voice, but it’s just a momentary salve. “No,” he shakes his head sadly. “Just checking in with Ledley to see where I stand.”

“And?”

“No idea. No closer, I think.”

Louise is genuinely crestfallen for her friend. They had formed an unofficial partnership to find the St. Matthew’s bomber, giving her the opportunity to witness what a brilliant copper David Budd is. He had special motivation in that specific regard, but he knew how to get the job done whether that was solving St. Matthew’s or surviving Thornton Circus or deescalating the First of October.

She understands the reasons for the suspension and the investigations. It doesn’t disappoint her any less even though she is of the opinion that the time off might be for the best. He needs to process, decompress, recover, and begin to heal after the hell of a six weeks that began with the First of October rail attack and culminated with the arrest of Luke Aikens. She constantly tells him as much.

It’s actually shocking to Louise that David was able to focus on the St. Matthew’s investigation, which does make her think that he can return to work, but then there are moments when he doesn’t hear his own name and slips down the stairs when he finally does. The latter has been happening more frequently. She wonders if it’s because therapy forced him to confront _all_ his issues and now his line of sight is a little crowded whereas before, he had pushed all of that behind him and ignored it. Because of her own experience with therapy, Louise knows that sometimes it does get worse before it gets better. She worries the “worst period” might be a long one for David.

She worries about him quite a bit. After their partnership ended, with their police investigations concluded and Julia barely clinging to life, Louise couldn’t stop thinking about that fucking head wound of his. She texted him daily, offering him celebratory drinks for the solved cases. When he finally took her up on her offer nearly a week later, she wasn’t exactly comforted. She could clearly see that he wasn’t sleeping or eating much. She insisted that he come to hers for dinner; her boyfriend was a chef and she’d have him fix up a proper meal. Much to Louise’s relief, the meal has become a standing weekly date. Surely it’s because of her partner’s talent in the kitchen, but she hopes that it’s also because of the friendship that she and David have developed that keeps him coming back.

David’s since become like a little brother, one she greatly admires and respects, and like any older sister, she does feel a responsibility for him. At the least, she’s going to make sure he’s fed.

Louise looks at her watch and briefly glances up at the floor she should be on. “I’m due for my third cup of coffee. Come on. Let me buy you a scone.”

She gives him a hearty pat on the back, encouraging him to follow her to the coffee cart in the lobby.

It’s not that David’s not hungry. He usually has an appetite. He just never thinks or cares to satisfy it, at least not properly. Maybe he’ll have some beans on toast in the morning. Usually he ends up just having toast and a cuppa to wash it down. Besides warming up a can of beans (if he feels like it) or popping the bread in the toaster, he doesn’t cook for himself much anymore. Instead, at some point during the day, he’ll grab a pasty or a kebab. That fills him enough. Late at night at the hospital, he’ll set out the snacks he brings with him: often a couple of packets of crisps and some Jaffa Cakes. He’ll idly work his way through them, making them last the duration of his stay.

So, he eats, but he also doesn’t sleep. The energy he spends awake demolishes through the few, unhealthy calories he takes in every day.

He’s been having trouble taking care of himself, but now that Julia’s awake, maybe things will change. His life isn’t suspended anymore. His worry kept him from caring about anything else, really. Thank God for Louise and Vicky. For many things, least of all: for always putting a plate of food in front of him because he doesn’t care to do it himself.

As Louise orders, David anxiously rocks on his feet, staring out the main entrance of HQ. He wants to be on his way back to the hospital, but he needs to give Julia some time. The need outweighs the want, so David welcomes Louise’s distraction, and the breakfast.

She hands him his coffee and scone. She’s pleased to see him already biting into it before she’s even paid the coffee vendor. They opt to stay inside and make their way over to the benches overlooking the Eternal Flame and the Embankment. Louise people-watches through the windows while David finishes devouring the scone. It’s gone quite quickly.

“You good?” she asks him.

David nods as he swallows down the remains of the scone. “Cheers, Lou.”

“So, what’d Ledley have to say?”

“Nothing new,” David sighs heavily. “DPS and IOPC are still conducting their investigations, and I’ve pretty much only just started therapy; I don’t know if the doc will clear me anytime soon.”

Again, Louise is disheartened for her friend. “This full suspension, though? With how spread thin we are across the force, they should have you working in some sort of capacity.”

“They’d chain me to a desk and bury me under admin work. I’d go mad.”

She bobs her head in understanding. After seeing how active of a policeman he was during the St. Matthew’s investigation, she cannot, for the life of her, imagine him stuck at a desk for long.

“I’m worried they won’t have me back, Lou.”

Louise watches him shake his head as he sits leaning forward, his arms on his knees, almost hugging himself. He stares intensely out the window at nothing.

“No,” she refuses. “No way.”

David scoffs. “Can you blame them? Would you reinstate me?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation. She begins to grow angry at the prospect of DPS or IOPC handing him the most severe consequence and dismissing him without notice. She becomes slightly panicked at the odds stacked against him. There must be something he can do. “What do you think the hold up is?”

“I suppose I’ve given them too many options to choose from,” he chuckles. He starts to keep tally with his hand. He holds out his thumb first. “I obstructed your investigation into Thornton Circus by lying about my connection to Andy and my interaction with him on the rooftop of Pascoe House.” He extends his index finger. “They may find something in my conduct at St. Matthew’s that will be cause for dismissal.”

“Like what?”

“Who knows?” David shrugs. He unfurls his middle finger. “I violated the leave Craddock imposed on me.”

A burst of laughter escapes from Louise’s mouth. “That one is absolute bullshit.”

David opens his ring finger and holds it back with his other index finger. “I evaded arrest and was a fugitive investigating the bombing on my own, illegally.”

“I can guarantee Sharma and I would still be investigating the whole thing if you hadn’t.”

“Doesn’t make it untrue,” he sighs. He looks down at his hand as all fingers are now extended. “And I engaged in ‘gross misconduct’ with my principal.”

Louise hears the disdain when he uses the legalese used to describe his and Julia’s relationship. Maybe that’s because he knows, of all his violations, that that is the one most likely to end his career, but Louise is pretty sure it’s also because David takes offense that they’ve reduced his and Julia’s relationship to “gross misconduct” and that they aren’t wrong, unfortunately.

“I suppose they’re concerned you may be vulnerable to that type of behavior again in the future.”

He turns to her with his mouth agape. “I don’t make it a habit to sleep with my principals, Louise!”

“Easy, Dave,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Of course you don’t, but you know that’s probably their logic.

He releases the rest of his steam through his nose, embarrassed and regretful for throwing his anger and frustration at Louise. He’s especially embarrassed because she’s absolutely right. He already fully expects that reasoning to come out of the mouths of the DPS investigators.

“I’m sorry, Lou.”

“You’re fine,” she says and carries on her track. “Listen, if that’s the issue here—that they’re concerned about you in Specialist Protection—why don’t you just leave?”

“What are you on about? I’m trying to avoid that.”

Louise turns in her seat and faces David. “My man Sharma’s getting promoted; I’m out a partner.” She sees that he’s still a little unclear. “We made a good team, you and me,” she says, “and you’re a good detective. You’d have to actually become one, of course, but they’re fast-tracking trainee DCs and they’ve got all those direct entry programs; I don’t see why they couldn’t do something similar for you.”

A little flicker of light in his eyes justifies her smile. She carries on, singing the praises of being a detective in Counter Terrorism but also highlighting its downsides, which aren’t much different than those of Royalty and Specialist Protection, or of a Met police officer in general.

“It’s obviously not as glamorous as RaSP—you won’t be spending your time with diplomats or MPs, so your mug might not appear on the telly with the same frequency,” she teases, slapping his leg with the back of her hand, “but it’s just as important work. You already know that. Hell, you’re already like an honorary SO15 DS, but we could use you for real, mate. Honestly.”

Louise watches David stare at the Eternal Flame. From their perspective, they see the words of the plaque in the distance in reverse, but they both know what it says.

_This eternal flame commemorates those who have lost their lives in the service of the Metropolitan Police._

“I can’t say it’s not as dangerous,” she tells him. “We lost five of our officers in the Camberwell attack—but we aren’t shields for potential targets every day, and I’m sure that will ease the minds of your family.”

David has to give Louise credit. She’s made it all sound so appealing and easy. There was just one problem.

“I’ll give it serious consideration when I know I still have a job here,” he says.

Louise deflates. “Right.”

She can’t hide her disappointment, not when her excitement got the best of her. They both just sit and let the realization settle. Discouragement now accompanies them on the bench. After some time, Louise knows she has to jump-start the conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time that their conversation waned and the two of them just sat in silence, letting time simply pass.

“Well, speaking of family,” she says, “what are you doing Christmas Eve? If you fancy, I’m hosting. Pop on over and bring yours.”

“What’s Erik got on the menu?”

“Nothing. I’m cooking.”

David turns to her and stares her down. “ _You’re_ cooking?”

“I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook.” When she sees that David is still skeptical, she punches him in the arm. “That settles it then. You’re coming over and you’re going to eat and you’re going to _love_ my Christmas Eve roast.”

“I’ll pop in before I pick up my family at the station,” he says. “I won’t bring them by. Too many of them. It’ll be my parents, a few aunts and uncles, some cousins. We’re having the whole family together for Christmas at Vicky’s.”

Louise’s lips press into a genuine smile. At least there was something going good for him. He’s been spending a lot of time with his kids and reveling in it, and from what he tells her, he’s been getting on well with Vicky. Louise relaxes like David, mirroring him as she leisurely leans back on the bench, arms draped against the backing. They watch in warmth as commuters pass by in front of them huddled in their winterwear, futily attempting to shield themselves from the chilly gusts accosting them.

“Are they all staying at yours?”

“God, no,” he laughs. “There are boxes everywhere.”

“You found a new flat?”

His current flat has never been very inviting or welcoming. His fault. Nearly all the furniture is from second-hand shops. A few pieces made the trip down from his childhood home in Glasgow; they’re pretty much as old as he is. All the fixtures of the apartment are the same as when he first rented the place. The walls, with their drab colors or questionable wallpapers, could do with freshening up. There is simply no charm to the flat.

It’s probably for the best that he never got around to make it homely. The place feels absolutely violated. Despite the investigation crews’ considerate efforts to replace everything as they found it, nothing feels right anymore. The worst violation of all, though, was by his own hand. By his own trigger finger.

David had done a quick mop up job before answering the door to Vicky. At first glance, it was a satisfactory job, but it was maybe a week later when he stood in the same spot, replayed in his mind what he had done, and saw streaks of dried blood below his feet. He crouched down and traced the arced marks of his cleaning swipes with his fingers. That brought his eyes to the dining table chair in front of him where he found smalls specks of blood on the back and legs, as well as on one leg of the dining table. He looked to his right and was shocked to discover dark, dried blood splatter camouflaged against the dark leather of his couch. He hurried over to the bookshelf certain that blood couldn’t have made it over, but closer examination told him that was a stupid assumption to make. He spotted a minuscule droplet on the bottom shelf. And then another. And then another. On books, on the radio, on the clock, on framed photos of Ella and Charlie.

He raced against a nonexistent clock to clean up. He grabbed the chair and chucked it into the dumpster. He scrubbed the leg of the dining table so hard he rubbed off some of the stain. The couch was a little more resilient to his vigorous cleaning, but he still left a few scratches. The books he immediately tossed in the bin. Everything else he cleansed as thoroughly as possible, but he looked at the radio and the clock and could imagine where the drops of blood were. So they were chucked too. The framed photos he couldn’t bear to part with, but he knew where the blood had tainted those as well.

The whole flat itself was tainted. It was no longer a home. It never really was, especially not after all that’s happened, but for a while, David stubbornly tried to exist in it as if he could outlast the macabre aura the place now possessed. The flat won out, but David eventually came to realize that was a good thing.

“Yeah, I found a house,” he tells Louise.

She smiles at the slight lift of a grin he makes. A grin he doesn’t make at her. One that genuinely appears prompted by happiness. Pure and sincere, but brief. It disappears so fast, Louise considers herself fortunate to have witnessed it.

“Whereabouts?” she asks.

“Crystal Palace. I, er—It just didn’t make sense to be across the river from the kids.”

“Right,” Louise says, agreeing with his reasoning and all the other reasons he doesn’t want to share outright, like that Crystal Palace was a good distance from his current flat in Camden and in the opposite direction. “I don’t blame you, mate.” She looks at him out the corners of her eyes and grins. “I definitely don’t blame you— _Crystal Palace_ , huh?” she teases with the poshest accent she can muster.

“It could use some work and I’m just renting, so settle down,” he smirks, but again, distress extinguishes the positive expression on his face. “It still is a lot of rent...but it’s a great house, Lou, and the back garden’s perfect. Big enough to put up a little net to play hockey with Ella or footy with Charlie. There’s a planter for Ella to do all her gardening and then for Charlie to pretend its Jurassic Park with all his dinosaurs...”

His laugh makes her laugh, causing the smile on her face to grow as she watches him get lost in the memories he’ll make with his kids. His happy grin returns. She’s enraptured by the possibilities he imagines. She can picture this back garden he sings praises about and sees him with Ella and Charlie running around and then collapsing to the grass from exhaustion but mostly laughter.

“And over the back wall,” David continues with amazement in his voice and his eyes, “is parkland. So much open sky, Lou. Never seen anything like it from a back garden north of the river.”

“It’s a rarity on either side,” she says. “Your kids are going to love it. I’m well chuffed for you, Dave.”

She is so purely happy for him, but guilt weighs her down when she can’t stop the melancholy from taking over. It appears as though he’s going through the same emotions. He drops his head back and groans.

“How am I going to afford it if I’m dismissed?”

“They can’t dismiss you,” she says. “They just can’t. _You_ are the one who got Aikens, exposed Craddock, and outed Nadia. We’re in need of good coppers and you’re a good—You’re a brilliant copper. I will attest to that.”

“I appreciate that, Lou, but even if they don’t dismiss me, it’ll be ages before I’m cleared.”

“They’ll put you on paid special leave. Use that time to fix up your new home,” she says brightly. “Erik and I will help some. I’m handy with a hammer.”

David is genuinely comforted by his friend, and her cheeky grin even makes him properly smile. His precarious financial situation is disconcerting but in the grand scheme of things, he honestly can’t be bothered about it, and Louise could very well be right: Things might work out. He has to have hope.

After all, Julia did wake up.

David reaches high up above him and tilts his body from side to side, stretching his torso. The resistance his left side gives him prevents him from getting that satisfactory pull but he growls happily when he relieves the right. He feels somewhat refreshed.

“My only chance to remain a copper might be you and you’re here skiving off with me,” he laughs.

“Fair play,” she says. “I suppose I should get back. Where you off to? You been to the hospital already?”

“Yeah, that’s where I came from. The Home Secretary woke up.”

Louise stares at him in genuine surprise and frustration. “Fucking hell, Dave? Are you serious?” He nods, prompting her to push him off the bench. “Why are we just chatting away like a couple of nans waiting for _Countdown_? Get out of here.” She gets to her feet and starts walking him toward the doors. “Is she going to be all right?”

She hasn’t asked him about Julia in quite some time. The updates he gave her when she did weren’t actually updates at all.

“She’s still there,” he would say.

Or some variation of the same. Louise got more information on the commute into work listening to Kat Collins run through the news on Radio 1 Breakfast. David was also never very forthcoming with anything regarding Julia, but Louise never once thought that to be because he didn’t want to be. She can see how difficult it all is for him. So, instead, she asks about the hospital. It’s her roundabout way of asking about Julia. David will divulge whatever he’d like to her then, whenever he does have news for her and if he wants to.

This time he finally does and Louise is genuinely pleased for him, and terribly relieved. This must be a turning point for him. It has to be.

“Yes,” he tells her. “I think she’ll be all right.”

“And you got to see her?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And she looked well,” he says, his head bobbing with positivity.

She tries to glare a little more out of him, and she knows he can feel her stare when he slides away from her.

“Lou, you really have to get back to work,” he laughs. “We can talk about this at dinner on Thursday.”

“Fine, but—” She grabs his arm stopping their progress. Without much effort, she pulls his attention directly to her eyes. “Do us a favor and just answer me this, or I will be relentless,” she warns. “How are you feeling about it?”

“I have a psychiatrist for this, you know.”

“Answer me.”

Of all the ways David is grateful for Louise, this might be the biggest one: She is in the company of the very few who really see him. She was the only one to recognize his feelings for Julia and was bold enough to call him out on them. He can’t say for sure just how exactly Louise feels about his relationship with Julia but he’s confident that Lou will support him no matter what.

His eyes drop down to his feet as he considers his answer but she sees that grin appear and that’s enough for her. With a smirk on her face, she starts walking again, leaving him behind.

“All right, off you go.”

“Wait—What?”

“I got my answer,” she says when he catches back up with her.

David’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Ok...” he shrugs.

They slow when they approach the front entrance. As they begin to part, David puts his hand up for a high-five, which Louise obliges, and a satisfying crack is produced when their hands meet. The satisfaction lingers. It resides on his face in the smirk he wears. He can be happy about the last couple of minutes, particularly because of the realization he’s come to, and he can be happy about just spending time with Louise.

It’s been invaluable to him to have a friend again. She’s been an especially great one. Probably his only friend. Her and now her boyfriend. David supposes he could consider Vicky a friend. That wasn’t always the case, but lately, sure. He realizes now that Andy never was his friend. Maybe they could have been if David had helped himself from the start and encouraged Andy to seek treatment as well. Maybe he’d still be alive. Thornton Circus might never have happened. Terry would probably be snacking on the biscuits he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket right now, drinking tea from his thermos, reading _FourFourTwo_ and moaning about the delay of Tottenham’s new stadium.

Louise waves her hand in front of David’s face, frowning and growing worried when that doesn’t break his trance. She resorts to getting physical.

He snaps out of his daze when Louise shoves her finger into his shoulder. “Ow.”

“Lost you there for a while.”

She says it playfully but doesn’t realize the concern is clear on her face. It’s easy for David to register. He puts a one a smile and breathes some life back into himself.

“Just thinking about the Home Secretary,” he says as he starts for the door. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Your shout next time,” Louise says after him. “Hey!” He halts and watches her raise an eyebrow. “‘ _The Home Secretary_ ’? Really?”

David rolls his eyes and throws his head back. “Oh, not you too, Lou.”

“What?” she asks with genuine innocence.

“Never mind. Fine— _Julia_ woke up and I’m off to see her now.”

“Good,” Louise smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _She looks at him out of the side of her eye and shows him the corner of her smirk. “All is forgiven?”_
> 
> _"All is forgiven," he smiles._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia begins walking back into the world.

David hurries down the steps in Embankment Station, leaping and skipping the last few in an effort to catch the District train again. He doesn’t selflessly let others on before him this time but only because all the commuters who need to be on have already boarded. The train is nearly ready to move. David slips into the car sideways between the closing doors.

Again, he stands at the end of the car and takes hold of the rail above. He doesn’t rest his eyes. He’s far too awake now. Rested. Caffeinated. Fed. Motivated. Instead, he studies the other riders, observing their actions, assessing their expressions. The lack of people presenting as students tells him that the universities must have already finished the Michaelmas term and are on break for the holidays. He notices a couple of clusters of people that may be tourists. He plays a game with himself and wagers that the group of two will get off at Mansion House to admire St. Paul’s Cathedral while the group of three will exit at Tower Hill to explore the Tower of London. A few others in his car he assumes will disembark when he does. There are two nurses in their uniforms, an older man who David guesses is a doctor just in the way he carries himself, and a woman already in scrubs. The rest of the people, David makes up stories for, and even though they head away from that direction in the middle of the day, they all seem to work at Parliament or live in Battersea.

David loses his bet with himself when it’s the trio that gets off at Mansion House and the couple exits at Tower Hill. He still considers it a win that both groups got off at either stop. With the exception of the woman in scrubs, he’s right about the other hospital workers that he follows off the train when the train reaches Whitechapel. Even a few “Battersea residents” join them. When the herd break off from him and head toward the main entrance of Royal London Hospital, David continues to a set of glass doors to the hospital further down the road that would typically be less conspicuous if not for the armed officers that stand guard.

The officer manning the door starts to open it before David even presents his badge. David expresses his thanks with a nod and strolls into the lobby with a confidence he never had previously. His heart still races but not in dread of terrible news. His breaths are deep and emphasized but not to calm the anxiety. He doesn’t even bother counting them.

He is excited and eager in all the best ways.

David is conscientious of his pace. He slows when he passes by the nurses' station where he gives his customary wave. Instead of turning toward the couches, he heads straight for the doors that lead to Julia’s corridor. It is no longer the barrier he doesn’t bother confronting. His strides become longer and quicker. He eventually picks up into a jog as if he needs to catch the door, but the opposite happens and he halts himself, literally pulling himself back as both doors begin to open simultaneously.

The doors part and there she is. Julia is heading right toward him.

She’s looking down at her feet, willing her legs not to shuffle but failing. Her start was better and stronger. After the initial annoyance of having to leave the comfort of her bed wore off, replaced with determination to progress her recovery, Julia made it from her bed to the hallway with awkward and irregular but solid and relatively swift strides. Pain aside, Julia was feeling good, positive even. Flanked and encouraged by the nurse and her mother, she slid the walker forward and forward and forward again. She set the lobby as her goal. It was realistic and feasible. The nurse had no objections. Only, everything began to deteriorate as the doors grew closer. She was battling with the pain as much as she was the physical limitations to move. Everything was just a bit more wobbly. Her arms, her legs, her vision. The world was unsettled to her, but then the doors opened.

The arrival of sunlight from the lobby prompts Julia to lift her head. It is the sight of David that is like a vitamin. She feels replenished and strengthened. She forgets the pain.

She presses her lips into an apprehensive smile, but when he grins happily, proudly, her caution disappears and she smiles more easily. He starts to strut over. She wishes she could meet him, but she has idled into a stop. She’s not quite ready to continue her journey.

“Hello,” David says.

Julia smirks to herself, happy to hear his Scottish brogue in the short two-syllable greeting.

His focus drifts to her mother at her side. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning indeed,” Frances smiles back.

Julia has to keep from glaring at her mother, admonishing her for her lack of subtlety, but she’s so pleased with the apparent relationship Frances and David have already formed.

“This is Antony,” Julia says, introducing the man beside her. “He’s teaching me to walk again.”

“Oh, I’m just here to protect you from falling,” he says.

“Take the promotion next time,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “Antony, this is—” Julia turns to look at David. “This is Ser—”

“David.” He offers his hand and shakes Antony’s. “Where were you all heading to?”

“The lobby,” Antony says, “but this was really good, Julia. We can turn back around.”

“No,” she says.

She looks beyond David at the sunlight filling the atrium. Her desire for the warmth of the rays defeats that of the warmth of her bed. She was glad to be free of it. She wasn’t confined to it any longer. She wasn’t tempted to settle into it and return to sleep where she’d suffer the nightmares. Julia’s eyes return to David and she restarts her journey.

“I wanted to get to the lobby. I’m going to the lobby.”

As the trio starts to cross in front of him, David joins the line alongside Frances.

“I’m sorry for the way I dismissed you earlier,” Julia says.

“I’m sorry for my, er...silence.”

She looks at him out of the side of her eye and shows him the corner of her smirk. “All is forgiven?”

“All is forgiven,” he smiles.

Feeling redundant and imposing, Frances glances down at her watch and hangs back while her daughter and her protectors continue on. “I think I will fetch an early lunch,” she says. “There is a nice little kebab shop I found up the road that I like. David, can I bring you back anything?”

“That’s very generous, ma’am, but I’m all right.”

“I will bring you back a kebab,” Frances insists. “Chicken or lamb?”

David yields with a smile. “Lamb would be lovely, ma’am.”

Frances disappears back down the hallway and David shifts into her place.

“She’s already fed me four egg mayo sandwiches,” Julia says, leaning toward him. “I think she’s trying to fatten us up.”

David brings a hand to his jaw and rubs the beard that isn’t hiding the side effects of his depression as much as he thought, but he stops thinking of himself when he realizes Julia had lumped herself with him.

He had been so happy to see her again that he didn’t really _see_ her as she finally stood before him, out from under the blankets of her bed. He studies her now and sees all that he didn’t notice moments earlier. Her cardigan swallows her and her leggings bunch up where they should be taut. Julia must have certainly lost at least a stone.

His silence alerts her. She watches him study her. The cheer he had greeted her with has disappeared. It’s almost as if it was never there if she doesn’t try to hold onto it. They finally step out into the atrium. They stand in the room filled with the sun and the most space Julia has been in in a long time, but the air has left.

“You must stop looking at me as if I’m an injured bird,” she finally says, “and as if you’re the one responsible for hurting me.”

Ashamed, David casts his eyes away.

Antony, feeling what is inescapable, slows. “You know, I think I can let David take over,” he says. “Why don’t you two head over to the couches? Have a rest there and then head on back when you’re ready.” He retreats to the corridor doors where Julia’s PPO stands keeping a watchful eye.

David pulls his hands from his pockets, already preparing himself in the event that Julia needs him, but she’s found her second wind. She stands up straighter and pushes the walker a little further ahead of her with each step. She feels the shock of pain in her hip when any weight is placed on her right side and the ache that lingers when she relieves it of weight, but to get rid of the pain means having to endure it at first. She’ll get stronger and she’ll be able to fight it off in time. She’s determined.

“There’s no rush,” David says, feeling their pace pick up.

She slows, if only to allow herself the opportunity to speak as she moves. The farther she pushes away the walker, the tighter she squeezes her jaw shut. So she makes shorter pushes, shuffling like she had hoped to avoid.

Julia lifts her chin. “I haven’t been able to catch up. Do we know who is responsible for the bombing?” she says. Detached. With a formality. Matter-of-fact.

Caught off guard and affected by her tone, David simply stares at her. She returns the stare, waiting for an answer.

David swallows hard and focuses on the floor ahead of them. “Yes.” He wants that to be the end of the conversation but knows it can’t be. He doesn’t have to look at Julia to see her impatiently waiting and silently demanding him to elaborate, but he has to gather strength and push aside the flashbacks. David closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “A man named Luke Aikens. He was a prominent figure in organized crime.”

“Aikens,” Julia says to herself. There’s familiarity to the name. She must have come across it before. The more she tries to connect to the name in her capacity as Home Secretary the sooner she puts it together. Her face warms and her limbs tingle. She’s suddenly afraid. “Organized crime. It was RIPA-18. I really was targeted.”

“Yes,” he reluctantly says.

“Has he been arrested?”

“Yes—” He stops himself from adding “ma’am.”

David won’t admit to being the one who apprehended him. He won’t disclose what that it took for him to figure it all out and bring Aikens down. He won’t revisit it.

“How?”

He begins to panic. He closes his left hand into a tight fist around his thumb, squeezing as hard as he can, potentially bending it out of place. He can’t tell her. He won’t.

“How did he do it?” she asks.

He releases his thumb, immediately feeling an ache in the knuckle, and quickly manipulates his sigh of relief into one of exasperation.

“It’s a long story, Julia.”

“Well, I have _nothing_ but time.”

She stares him down again but he simply points forward, directing her attention ahead as they reach the couches. He shows her to the love seat he claimed as his. Without instruction, he offers his hand to her, and without hesitation, she puts her hand in his. The other hand she places on his chest and clutches the lapel of his coat.

They stand face-to-face, just inches apart. How effortless it would be for her to just step into him and wrap her arms around him. To rest her head against his shoulder and for him to place a kiss on hers and remain there as he held her tight.

Instead, David continues focusing on transitioning her to the couch. He moves away the walker and becomes her sole support. She tightens her grip but she can only keep her fist closed around his coat for so long. She slides her hand up under his scarf and doesn’t stop until she’s holding the nape of his neck. She can’t stop herself from pushing her fingers into his hair, subtly swirling his curls around. Her touch sends chills down his spine. He tries to disguise his quiver by sturdying himself and widening his stance. He doesn’t see it, but Julia laughs at him with her smirk. He places his free hand on her back and brings her close to him.

She breathes him in deeply and drifts away to the last time she smelt him so intensely. With what strength she has left, she resists the urge to start them on a path that would lead to them reliving something similar to that memory. She's content with being held by him. She prefers his arms to be wrapped around her chest, but this hold, as if they are about to dance, she happily settles for.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

She nods as she feels the warmth of his breath reach her cheek and then the warmth of his body blanket hers. He begins leading their dance toward the couch with short steps and keeps his eyes on their feet while she fixates on his face.

Now that she sees him up close in the full light of the sun, she can see what she believes the six weeks have done to him. Near his hairline, a streak of lighter hair exists. Most of the strands are progressively lighter shades of brown, heading toward blond. Some have gone grey. A few are shock white. The wrinkles in his forehead are more apparent. The ones at the corners of his eyes are deeper. There are a few where she was sure there weren’t any before. Through his beard, she can see the hollowness of his cheeks, making the bones a little more pronounced.

She wants to see his eyes. To be lost in the blue of them. She stares at them, hoping he’ll finally look up at her, but he concentrates hard on moving her safely. Her attention shifts to his eyebrows where she, again, sees lighter strands of hair, and of course, the scar. She can see just how deep the cut was and that it will split his eyebrow for the rest of his life.

“Ok,” he says. “Ready when you are.”

Julia finds that the back of her legs are now against the couch. She braces herself for the descent as David does the same. He reminds himself to be delicate. She seems so frail. His grasp around her hand is ever so light, the very opposite of her grip on him. The hand he has behind her simply hovers, only his thumb presses softly against her back. He knows the rhythm of her heartbeat in the way she slightly sways back and forth in his hold. He brings himself closer to steady her. They can’t help breathing each other in. A mixture of warm blueberry pie, bergamot, vanilla, and a distant botanical garden of orchids, jasmine, and roses. They both close their eyes and breathe deep, savoring their scent.

“Julia?”

Finally, Julia can look into David’s eyes. She sees the weariness in them. She sees the veins of pink. But it’s the blue that strikes her. The crystalline blue that takes her breath away. She is mesmerized by them, comforted by them. In them, she finds security and confidence, and confidence in her.

“I’m ready,” she says.

David nods and gradually lowers Julia to the couch, like handling a feather. “You’re ok?” he asks when they touch down.

The pulsating in her head accelerates. She takes a moment to settle the earth while the fatigue sets in all at once. She knows that every muscle from her neck down has been exhausted. She can already feel the soreness. Tomorrow, she will be in pain, but right now, she sits with David.

“Yes, I’m ok,” she says.

They sit for a while just to regather themselves. Julia looks at her new surroundings while David simply watches her. He doesn’t need to study the atrium, especially from where they sit. It’s a view he is incredibly accustomed to, but the feeling is different. The loneliness doesn’t exist anymore.

Julia examines the sitting area they occupy. The sofas are arranged like any home’s sitting room and the seats possess that perfect balance of soft and firm, but she can’t imagine being genuinely comfortable here for any significant period.

“This was where you were all that time?” she says.

“Yes. Here on this love seat. Asleep in that corner there.” He points with his stare. “ _Lying_ in that corner there.”

She can’t exactly see the spot in which he directs her to, but she looks down at the carpet under their feet. The short carpet that probably provides only a fraction more cushion than the tile it borders. She surveys the large windows and all the light they let in. Her eyes find the light fixtures overhead that are bright even in the sunlight.

“It isn’t a wonder why you haven’t been sleeping,” she says without thinking. She knows that it’s more than where he rests his head that keeps him awake at night. She presses her lips closed and shakes her head as she rolls her eyes, chiding herself.

“Yup,” David agrees regardless.

Julia clears her throat, sits up straight, and pulls her shoulders back. “So. This Aikens. We know ‘why’. What is the ‘how’? How the hell was he able to bomb a secured and guarded engagement?”

The muscles in David jaw bulge. He can feel the heat of the explosion.

“David?”

“CS Craddock,” he says quickly.

“Your Chief Super Craddock?”

David brushes past the connection to him. “For years, she’s been an inside man for Aikens. He was able to circumvent all security precautions and checks with information she provided him.”

“Shit...” Julia whispers to herself. Pieces begin to click into place. “She leaked my itinerary leading to the attack in Thornton Circus.”

David hears the thwacks of the bullets hitting the armor of their vehicle. He angles away from Julia and attempts to wipe the sweat from his brow but the clamminess of his palm just mixes with the clamminess of his forehead. He closes his eyes and stretches his neck, but the way he keeps his jaw shut tight, he’s eased himself in no way.

“Yes,” he says, now speaking away from Julia. “Craddock gave Aikens your itinerary. Aikens supplied the shooter with the rifle.”

He inhales as if to catch his breath. He won’t divulge any more of the details. He won’t offer up Andy’s identity unless she asks. He refuses to elaborate. He’s afraid to.

All her thoughts race around in her mind in laps. Suddenly, they screech to a halt. She grabs a hold of David’s knee and pulls him back toward her.

“Craddock endangered your children.”

He wants to smile, touched by her concern, but he feels her fury, both in her grip on his leg and in her tone, and though he knows full well it isn’t directed at him, her fire surprises him. Makes him nervous even.

“No,” he shakes his head, taking on the blame. “That was me.”

Julia’s face drops. “What?”

David closes his eyes and transports himself back to the train. He’s showing Nadia Ali the picture that is his lock screen, showing her his children to comfort her. Their beautifully bright and innocent faces. He cringes hard, flexing every muscle in his face. His jaw is clamped shut. The wrinkles in his forehead and brow grow deep. His head does a single turn to one side and back as he squeezes his eyes tight. Tears escape and fall.

Julia’s own eyes begin to sting as she swipes at the trails on his cheeks. She doesn’t even think to survey around them to see who is watching. No one else is a thought in her mind. It is just her and David. She starts rubbing his back and brings her hand up to his neck. She gives it a few squeezes and then runs her hand into his hair.

David’s mind has long left the train. He allows the pleasure from her touch to consume him. At the same time, he fights off the urge to just break down, prompted by the security he feels in being with Julia.

“David,” she says.

He snaps out of his daze and clumsily dries his face with his palm. “Um, the First of October and Nadia Ali, I, er...” His bottom lip quivers as he takes a deep breath. He vividly remembers her haunting interview. “I had told her about Ella and Charlie. Told her their names and ages. Her organization took care of the rest.”

Julia’s chest tightens. “Oh, David...”

She returns her hand to his back and doesn’t stop sliding it up and down the curve. Her comfort hasn’t ceased all this time. He feels safe in it, but he can’t linger. He has to crack on.

“All the bombs were built by Nadia. The one that she wore, the one used in Camberwell, the one at St. Matthew’s, the—” He stops himself. He can’t tell her about his suicide vest. He can’t put himself back there. He doesn’t want her to know. “The, er…” He wonders how to cover his misstep. Her hand still moves up and down his back, and he finally looks back at her after avoiding her attentive stare. His lips curl into a content smile. “They—Nadia and Aikens—They can’t hurt us anymore.”

Julia sighs heavily. In relief. In exhaustion. “All of this happened when I was unconscious,” she says, trying to wrap her mind around everything. “How the hell did the police figure it all out?”

The police all right. As in _him_.

David grabs his thumb and massages the sore knuckle. He’s uncomfortable with keeping so much from Julia, but he won’t go down this road. To do so means explicitly telling her that he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. It means explaining how he isn’t dead right now. It means telling her that he was trapped in a suicide vest and nearly executed by the police, a few times.

He doesn’t keep quiet to protect her sensibilities. She’ll eventually find out, from articles or official reports. Julia has the fortitude for atrocious details. She can bear to hear it. He can’t. Even if it comes from himself. Not yet.

“You’ll have to consult the incident reports,” he says.

Julia bobs her head in understanding as she continues to wear a stunned stare, but the look suddenly shifts. “RIPA-18,” she says to herself. Julia senses defeat; more of her work and effort possibly rendered pointless. “What’s happened to it?”

“Mike Travis, serving as acting-Home Secretary, killed it,” David informs her.

 _Pointless_.

Julia closes her eyes. She searches her mind for acceptance, but she won’t find it.

“Did you really believe in it?” David says.

She looks at him blankly.

“Did you really believe in RIPA-18?” He glances around to find anyone in earshot. “Or was that just part of the deal with the Security Service?”

David surprises even himself with his gall. Julia is certainly offended. She doesn’t even dignify him with a response other than a glare. He shrinks in her stare. He didn’t and doesn’t aim to admonish her. He can only regret his phrasing.

“You received intel that kept my children safe,” he explains, “and monitored for any future possible action against my family. I thank you for that, but I also know that you were lifting Security Service up to further your—”

“Stop.” Julia refuses to speak about getting into bed—so to speak—with Stephen Hunter-Dunn. It feels just as dirty as if it were literal. “Just stop, David.”

But he doesn’t back down. “I have to know if you truly believed in RIPA-18, and that you, as a politician, as the Home Secretary, that you are pushing for what you genuinely believe in.”

Julia studies him. She has never seen him as impassioned, as invested. Certainly not in regards to politics.

“Why, David? Why do you _have_ to know?”

“Because I want to support you, Julia. I want to support and live in the world you usher for us, so long as it’s the one you actually believe in.”

“‘ _Us_ ’?”

“Everyone,” he quickly and earnestly answers.

“Ah.” Her eyebrows jump as she simply absorbs the twinge and carries on. “You seem to think a lot of me, and you’re awfully supportive and optimistic—I suspect my speech at St. Matthew’s had some traction despite the interruption.”

David had realized that he was taking on the responsibility of catching her up to speed. He also realized that he couldn’t just dump everything on her as it all stood. He can’t simply tell her that all her inroads have resulted in dead-ends thus far. The path to PM, however, might still be feasible. A long shot, but not an impossibility.

“It did,” David nods.

Julia grows bashful. She hides her face by lowering her head, pretending to focus on ironing out her gown with her hands where it covers her lap. “And how was it received?”

David vaguely recalls the news reports but he never watched them for long enough. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Well, what was Vosler’s response?”

David takes a deep breath for the deep dive ahead. “Irrelevant,” he says with a cheeky shrug. “Vosler resigned after the compromat was leaked.”

Julia feels what must have been her heart pause only for it to ramp up and race. “What? How did that happen?”

“You might want to have a sit-down with Anne Sampson.”

"I don't think I do," she scoffs. She rolls her eyes and groans. “Of course she couldn’t have waited until I was conscious. When did this all happen? Is there already a new PM?”

David reluctantly nods. “Catherine Sherwood.”

“Right,” she says with a nod.

That doesn’t come as a surprise to her. In fact, it’s next best-case scenario, but with that consolation comes a gut-wrenching realization—Number 10 could have been hers.

David watches as she looks ahead of her, studying everything in her view but not actually seeing any of it. He can see that the gears are turning.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to Number 10,” he says.

She immediately locks her glare onto him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I just meant that you're resilient and you're brilliant, and I believe you will get to Number 10—the right way—if that’s what you want.”

She softens her look and forgets about her career and that regard of her future. Instead, she focuses on David.

“What I want…”

Julia slides her hand into his and squeezes.

He holds on tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
>  _David puts his shoulders back as he locks his eyes onto hers. “You are not alone in this, Julia. I_ will _protect you.”_  
>   
>   
>  [Author's note: We're about a third(?) of the way there. Maybe? I think? This'll be a little lengthy. Sorry, but also not. :) Anyway, I just wanted to give a great big thank you to those reading. Thank you for the kudos, the comments, the subscriptions, the bookmarks, all of it. It honestly means a lot. Thanks for hanging with me while we live with David and Julia for a little bit longer. <3]


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David opens up.

“What I want,” she says.

Julia slides her stronger left hand into his and holds on tight. He gives it a squeeze before he opens his hand. He admires her fingers resting in his palm.

Toward the end of his marriage and even after, he believed he still had a hold onto something. It wasn’t tangible. At the time, not anymore, but also not yet; maybe there was still a chance. So he held on.

He held on to what amounted to nothing, and all that time, he had deprived himself of touch. True, genuine, meaningful touch. He never realized how much he missed it until he was touched by her and she satisfied a desire he was utterly unaware of.

At their start, that was probably all that their relationship was for him: satisfying desires. He was more than content with the physicality of their relationship. Yes, definitely more than content. Yet, she surprised him. She captivated him. She shook him. In a multitude of ways. Good and bad. It was undeniably exciting. He was feeling again. Anything and everything. All at once.

The emptiness inside him that his loneliness had created was being filled. He himself was feeling fulfilled. As chaotic as the world before him was, David was given the confidence to engage with it, and no longer simply exist in it.

But then he had terrified her and she pulled away. He literally had her in his arm and she pulled away, and he was left holding onto nothing once again. The chill that replaced her embodied the lack of touch that, this time, he acknowledged right away, because he immediately recognized that it was _her_ touch that he already missed. Anyone else’s touch wouldn’t suffice; it would be an impossibility. Nor did he want anyone else’s touch.

She had pulled away, but then she reached out to him, grabbed him. He can’t forget the grip she had around his hand. It was strong and confident and secure. Even after she let go, he could still feel it. He held onto it. He held onto that feeling when she was taken from him and when he was kept from her.

David stops himself from falling back into the despair of the past six weeks. He looks down at what he holds. It truly is something.

He fixates on her hand and delicately plays with each finger, running his thumb along the length of them, from nail to knuckle. It’s cold under his touch but pleasantly refreshing. Her fingers are definitely thinner than he remembers. They feel frail. They look frail. But he knows there’s still strength in them. He lingers at her pinkie, tracing around it where her signet ring used to be. There’s more tenacity in that little finger of hers than most people have in their whole body.

Julia watches him as he aims to touch every surface of her hand. She won’t object. She delights in the sensation of his fingers gliding against her skin. And as she continues to study him, she’s moved by the way he looks at her. There’s almost amazement in his eyes. At some point, there was a turn for him, he doesn’t see her as an injured bird anymore, even when he notices the bruise on her wrist peek out from under the cuff of her cardigan. She anticipates the pain as his fingers begin to approach it, but his touch is so careful and considerate and light, she feels an electric chill that reaches her bones and makes the hairs on her arm stand up. David notices and rubs warmth into the back of her wrist before pulling at her sleeve to completely cover her arm.

He returns his attention to her hand where he meticulously matches the pads of her fingers with the pads of his and then presses their palms together. His thick mitt of a hand eclipses hers, but he feels her touch, which begins to warm. He allows it to surround his hand when he slides his fingers in between hers, intertwining them and clasping his hand to her hand. He holds on tight.

Julia takes her eyes away for a moment, concerned about any audience witnessing their exchange. She finds one in Antony and PC Newman at the corridor. They divert their stares. Looking back at David, Julia sees that her concern isn’t shared by him. His focus has never left their hands. When it finally does, he looks into her eyes.

A smile stretches across her face, mirroring the one on his. She feels her heart strongest in her chest, but she also feels it in her head and all the way down to her toes. David can feel it himself. He gives her hand a wiggle and then sandwiches it with both his. He rubs and squeezes and massages her hand. His nervous energy manifests itself in restlessness. He takes a deep breath and braces himself.

“If Number 10 is also what you want, still,” he says, “you should know that Stephen Hunter-Dunn resigned for his role in the alleged coup.”

For the second time in the same morning, Julia snatches her hand away. David looks down at his fist as it clutches the absence of her touch.

Julia feels the blood leave her body and then rush everywhere all at once. Her body grows hot. Her hands and feet begin to tingle. She has to tell herself to breathe slowly, but she can’t fill her lungs enough. Short breaths are all that she can manage. She becomes dizzy with panic. David sees it in her eyes and quickly takes her hands, but she doesn’t seem to realize. She sits stunned, and, again, like when she stood in his arms, she sways with each heartbeat. Except this time, she isn’t so much swaying as she is slightly jerking.

“They’re calling it a coup?” she says.

“What else would you call it?”

The brazenness with which he continues to come at her with hasn’t ceased to surprise her. She’d be impressed if her life wasn’t imploding in front of her.

“Where the hell does that leave me, David? I intricately linked myself to Stephen Hunter-Dunn.”

He has to keep himself from responding condescendingly. Despite his disapproval, Julia gets a pass because it’s her. Stephen Hunter-Dunn, though. David loathes the man. That’s where his distaste lies, but he has to avoid sticking his foot in it because he’s sure to hit Julia in the crossfire with any stupid, smartass retort even if his only target is Hunter-Dunn.

“I don’t know,” he decides to say. He gnaws at his lip as he begins to help her figure things out. “I don’t think they can physically link you to the compromat.”

“How is that possible? They have it. They must have found it in my flat.”

“No,” he smirks. “They didn’t. I did.” He smiles, remembering back to when he found it. He had been impressed by Julia’s cleverness in concealing it and proud of himself for figuring it out. “I took it out of your flat before they could.”

“So _you_ gave it to Sampson?”

And once again, she frees her hands of his. He really wishes she would stop doing that. He fills his palms with his face instead.

“I surrendered it to the police, yes,” he sighs. “I had to. Security Service was searching for it. They also knew I had knowledge of its contents. Who knows what they would have done to me to find it?” He feels his chest begin to warm. The heat starts to spread throughout his body. “Who knows what they would have done to _you_ to not just get to me but—” She sees what she perceives to be disgust on his face. He drags his palm across his mouth and the look disappears. “Jesus, Julia, at one point I thought they were behind the bombing, and that’s not outside the realm of possibility, is it? What if they wanted to finish what the bomb didn’t?”

He brings his fist to his lips and begins shaking his head. He takes his focus completely away from her and stares out the windows. This was his six weeks Julia begins to realize. These were the thoughts he was living with. She rests her hand on his thigh, hoping it gives him some comfort.

He’s emboldened to go on, but at the same time, reluctant. He turns back to her and takes a deep breath. “Truth be told, Julia,” he says, “the explosion might have saved you.” He continues when she has no response for him. “You’re just a pawn.” _Like me_ , he almost adds. “If Hunter-Dunn implicates you, he implicates himself in targeting you.”

“You said Aikens—”

“That wouldn’t stop people from speculating,” he says, knowing that fact all too well. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Aikens seems like the perfect fall guy.”

She feels the apathy in his demeanor. It unsettles her. Her hand reflexively shifts on his leg, nearly coming off. She forces herself to leave it where it rests. It’s just the circumstance, she tells herself. It has to be, because apathy is not really in David’s nature. It worries her all the same.

“And what goes for Hunter-Dunn, the same goes for Vosler.”

Julia’s eyes narrow. She tries to figure it out herself but she has no idea where to begin. “What are you talking about?”

“Vosler had informed Roger of our trip to Chequers. He didn’t reveal the nature of the visit, but you know Roger’s a smart boy. He plotted with Mike Travis and Rob MacDonald to sabotage your speech to end your campaign before it could start.”

She glowers at David. “Sabotage it how?”

He fills his lungs. He reminds himself to push aside the guilt as he prepares to revisit St. Matthew’s. “At the last minute, Rob notified Tahir of inaccuracies in your speech; inaccuracies that Rob himself inserted. They intended for you to fuck up or for Tahir to interrupt you mid-speech. They wanted it to be some sort of viral moment.” David rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“My mother said Tahir was on the stage...” She slides her hand off his thigh to cover her mouth as she begins to work it all out. “No one was supposed to be on that stage, but he was. That’s why Kim came running.”

David reluctantly nods. He allows a moment for Julia to process it all, and as he has become accustomed to every time he thinks of them, he pauses to pay respects to Tahir and Kim, but he forces himself to crack on. In his head, he apologizes to them.

“Regardless of whether or not Vosler was actually involved in their plot, what they do, because of Roger, gets back to him, and they wanted to destroy you. So you can see why Vosler will keep quiet about the compromat—‘Cause who’s to say that _they_ weren’t behind the bombing?”

His willingness to ignore the truth unnerves her. She’s hardly sure what the truth even is anymore. Julia runs her hands through her hair and simply holds her head. Overwhelmed and dumbfounded are understatements. Out of the corner of her eyes, she catches David staring at her. She immediately drops her hands and her scars disappear under her hair. Much to her relief, David brushes past her insecurity and carries on.

“No one will physically connect you to the compromat,” he says.

“You keep saying ‘physically’.”

David swallows the lump in his throat as his head involuntarily tilts. “There may be a few recorded mentions that connect you to the compromat.”

“A few.”

“At least three,” he admits. As he thinks of one instance, he drags his hands down his chest. They meet in his lap where he grabs hold of his left thumb. “In surrendering the compromat to the police, I said over radio that I found where you hid it.”

“In what situation did that happen?”

“Irrelevant.” David receives her glare, but he absolutely will not fold. “Irrelevant,” he says again, this time even more firmly.

“Fine. What about the other recordings?”

He fiddles with his beard, rubbing both sides of his face to cover the flush in his cheeks thinking about the second instance. “Security Service bugged your room at the Blackwood.” She prods at him again with her eyes, but he ignores her. “So a meeting between you and a man was recorded in which he delivered encrypted material to you and explicitly explained as much.”

“How do you know that?”

David hesitates and starts to scratch his brow, hiding his face from her. “SO15 provided me with equipment to listen in on meetings you held with the Security Service.”

“Unbelievable!” Julia shouts in a whisper. “And that accounts for the third recording?”

“Yes, but I’m in possession of it.”

“You still have it?!”

“We have no choice.”

“ _We_?”

David puts his shoulders back as he locks his eyes onto hers. “You are not alone in this, Julia. I _will_ protect you.”

There is no room to doubt what he says. His confidence could fill the atrium. She believes him wholeheartedly.

“If they try to come after you, for whatever reason, with a doctored version of it,” he explains, “we have our own copy of the meeting.”

Julia is comforted, as well as alarmed. Mostly, she feels guilty. There is just an incredible amount of forethought in all that he reveals to her. It’s another clue, more insight into his past six weeks. He had been concerned about her in every way. He’s thought about it all quite a lot. Maybe too much.

“Thank you, David. You’ll never know what your loyalty means to me.” She desperately hopes her sincerity comes through, but she’s not so sure. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive that I’m still struggling with the fact that you were spying on me.”

“It’s not like I bugged the room as well. It was just a little eavesdropping.”

Julia scoffs. The corner of her mouth twitches up in disgust as she wags her head at him. “Do not get cheeky. Now is not the time.”

David rolls his eyes. “Craddock was threatening to pull my family from the safe house. I couldn’t risk it.” He reads the betrayal in her face. “I never submitted any of the recordings and I never reported to them anything more than what they already suspected.”

“Well, thank you, Sergeant Budd. I sincerely appreciate the discretion.”

Her sarcasm cuts at him. Indignant, he flies off the couch. He needs to move. Out of the corner of her eye, Julia sees Antony start toward them. She holds up her hand and he retreats. With his fist to his mouth, David paces in front of her. She simply watches him and allows him to feel incensed. She certainly is, and she isn’t going to stop him from feeling the same knowing things would get worse if either of them attempted to pacify or invalidate each other’s fury.

David sits back down, this time on the coffee table and directly in front of Julia. “You were constantly meeting with Hunter-Dunn privately,” he says trying, and failing, to suppress his frustration and judgment. He speaks quickly, hushed, and constrained. “Travis was already sensitive to that. I’d bet he tipped off Sampson, but it’s not like you, nor Hunter-Dunn, were being very discrete. And come on, Julia, honestly, you both chose a real shit time to keep pushing for Number 10.”

“All right, David. Tone down the resentment. Believe me, you cannot be more angry with me than I am with myself.”

His shoulders drop as he sits back. “It’s not you I’m angry with,” he says softly. “You’re better than Hunter-Dunn and all that nefarious scheming.”

Despite the circumstance, Julia can’t help but be charmed by him. He believes in her. She feels it. Yet, she casts her eyes down. “And if I told you it was actually _my_ ‘nefarious scheming’?”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” he says, inserting himself into her line of sight.

Not even a moment had passed from when she finished speaking to when he refuted her. He spoke so hastily she wonders if he actually registered what she proposed or if he even believes himself. He just has an answer for her every time. He has all the answers for her.

“Everything you’ve just apprised me of,” she says, “I can’t imagine much of it made the news. How is it that you’ve obtained all this information?”

It was almost imperceptible, but she saw the switch—he put on his armor and shut down right before her eyes.

“Another time,” he says.

“David.”

He glares at her, but not to focus ire on her and certainly not to intimidate her. Rather, his stare is to give her a window to see through his armor, to show her that, right now, he will not satisfy her curiosity.

“I’m sorry, Julia. I can’t.”

She nods as if understanding, but she’s afraid for him. He’s not hiding something. He’s hiding _from_ something.

With the matter pushed aside for now, she witnesses the armor disappear and he sits before her vulnerable once again. He doesn’t need his armor for the next bit. Quite the opposite. He has to let her in for it.

“There’s another reason to bring up the Blackwood recordings.” He grits his teeth and forces himself to take a deep breath. “In an effort to discredit me, Security Service made available to my former supervisor at least one recording that proves our…‘gross misconduct’,” he says, rolling his eyes. “In dealing with Craddock, DPS discovered the recording.”

“Why would Security Service need to discredit you?”

“They just did,” he insists.

She takes the hint this time and lets David carry on.

“I also certainly didn’t help matters by basically taking up residence here.” His jaw muscles bulge again as his head does a quick tilt. “DPS are already well into their investigation into my role in our affair,” he reveals. “I’m sure the IOPC will soon begin their investigation for yours.”

Julia closes her eyes and drops her head back. She lets the sun hit her face. The warmth is legitimately the only good thing going for her at the moment, and because it’s London in the winter, the warmth is actually only very marginal.

“Oh, fuck it all,” she breathes out.

“What?”

“You just spent the past fifteen minutes convincing me that the compromat isn’t going to bring me down only to reveal that our sex scandal will.” She scoffs and what remains is a wry smile on her face. “A heinous crime indeed.”

But David isn’t amused. They joked that it would cost him his job, not hers.

“If they decide that I abused my power, then that’s it,” she says. “There is no more Home Office. There is certainly no Number 10.”

“Don’t say that.”

“David, don’t be daft. I mean, what about you? Do you even still have your job?”

“I’m suspended.”

“Pending DPS’s findings?”

DPS’s findings in each incident; Thornton Circus, the St. Matthew’s bombing, the affair, and his rogue St. Matthew’s investigation. That, in addition to the results of IOPC’s own inquiries in nearly all the same incidents. David won’t trouble her any more than he already has by explaining all of that to her.

“But not just because of the affair,” he chooses to tell her.

Julia thinks about the worst-case scenario. “Would it be the end of the world?” she says. “I could be happy back in criminal law.”

David suppresses a laugh, leaving him smirking at her as he shakes his head. “Sure, when you’re good and done with Westminster, but we both know you’re not anywhere near done.”

Julia Montague would dominate criminal law, but David knows Julia Montague is destined for bigger things.

“Then what do we do?”

 _We_.

They’ve found themselves in an absolute mess. A mess in which they actually can’t do much of anything to clean up themselves. They are helpless.

Yet, David smiles.

 _We_.

This is everything David has been waiting and hoping for. He’s finally with her and they’re finally able to figure everything out. Together.

“David, I want you by my side,” Julia says.

She grabs his hand and she savors his immediate grip. It’s as tight as she holds him.

“You know,” he starts, “when we were last like this and you told me that, there wasn’t any other consideration in my mind. My immediate thought was, ‘Ok. We’re going to do this. We _are_ doing this.’”

He grins thinking about that version of their lives. Julia observes genuine happiness on his face, a light and excitement in his eyes. Her cheeks warm as they begin to lift when her lips curl, but neither her cheeks nor her lips reach their apex, because just like what David imagines ceases to exist, so to then does his smile.

“And then you—”

He can’t bring himself to say it because he sees it. He sees her lock eyes with him. He sees her face illuminate and then disappear behind the curtain of debris. David closes his eyes. His face tenses and turns red. Veins in his neck and along his temples bulge. He purses his lips as his head shakes.

Pressure around his hand wakes him. His eyes shoot open with urgency. She is still there, holding on tight, looking right into him.

“I needed you to be ok,” he says.

He feels so intensely. The memories, his emotions, his thoughts, his hopes. He can’t rein it all in. For the first time, possibly ever, he wants to say everything on his mind.

“I just wanted to be able to talk to you again. I wanted us to figure this out together. I never thought to figure it out on my own. I couldn’t.” He can see the blockade blocking that road in his mind that led to Julia. “I couldn’t think about the future in that regard. I wasn’t even really living in the present because I didn’t know if you were.

“I get up for Ella and Charlie. I see them every day. I do the school runs. I get to put them to bed at night.” He wears a faint smile as he speaks of his children, but that smile quickly disappears, too. “Beyond that, my life pretty much existed here and even if I was out there pretending to carry on living, I wasn’t. Not really, because all I could think about was you and how I desperately wanted you to be ok.”

“I am ok, David.”

“You are, and you’re just as bold and brave as ever. I wish I could be like you, but I’m...”

He takes a deep breath through his mouth that trembles along with his chin. He is apprehensive and insecure and afraid and yet strangely confident.

“I am not well,” David admits. “ _I_ am the one that isn’t ok.” His face contorts as he fights to keep it together just long enough to reveal his greatest shame. “The day after the explosion, there were a few hours I thought you to be dead, Julia, and I did not handle it well. _At all_.”

It doesn’t take her more than a second to decipher what he tells her. She lets his hand go to grab both sides of his face. She physically turns his head so that she can find the scar. She locates it right away with her fingers. As she parts his hair from it, she can picture a pistol meeting that target and him holding the gun. She shuts her eyes and recoils to hide from the image.

“It was silly,” he says.

But it doesn’t excuse him. She glares at him and he sees the shock and fear and anger in her eyes even through the glare in her tears. Her hands don’t drag down his face like he expects (and wants) them to. They lift off as fast as possible.

“You said you were getting help?” she asks.

“I am,” he nods, but her unease isn’t dissuaded. “Look, I was lost, Julia. I still am, but I know where I’m going now and I can find my way,” he insists. “I’m trying to find my way, I promise. I want my job. I want to be well for my kids.” He sits up straight and puffs his chest. “I want you.”

David reaches for her but Julia clasps her hands together and places them in her lap as she physically retreats; she slides back on the love seat. He’s stunned, his eyes widen and his mouth drops open. His hand lingers in the space between them for quite a while. When he finally pulls it back, he withdraws along with it. No longer does he sit on the edge of the coffee table. He slides back as well.

“I think you need time,” Julia says, lifting her chin. She looks him in the eyes with complete resolve. “I think I do, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _Julia scoffs. A wince follows as she begins to feel the painful soreness in her ribs and back. She tries not to let the pain affect her, but Roger is already making his way around the bed. Before he can reach her, David steps in between them, squaring up to Roger._
> 
> _“Ma’am, would you like me to show him out?”_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discussion is finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Look, I was lost, Julia. I still am, but I know where I’m going now and I can find my way."_  
>  (David, Chapter 8)  
>   
> I, I can't stay  
> But I can hardly move  
> And I, I can't say  
> Say where I'm off to  
> I'll find you again  
>  _“Find” (Live at EastWest) – Kasbo, Cody Lovaas, Shallou_

“I think you need time,” Julia says, lifting her chin along with her stare, focusing it on him. “I think I do, too.”

She sees objection in his glare, but she won’t be persuaded.

David was security in absolutely every sense. She knew that the very moment he came into her life. It was something she simply felt. She felt his strength and confidence, and she, herself, had complete confidence in him. She still does, and she still feels strength and confidence from him. Especially in the way he touches her. The way he grabs hold of her. The way he exists around her.

Yet, at the same time, she can feel how adrift he is even as he sits before her, and now she knows just how unwell he is, and has been for a long time.

Realizing that he nearly resorted to dying of his own accord, Julia had fought the urge to throw her fists into him and desperately kiss every inch of his face. She still aches to hold him and she’s still fuming. But it is precisely because of that reaction that Julia retreats.

Julia greatly values self-preservation and autonomy. She thinks of her mother, who loved her father dearly. As devastated and heartbroken as Frances was when he died, Frances learned how to be ok again. As ok as one can be losing the love of their life.

“We have to be ok without each other,” Julia says, “and I don’t think we’ve coped well so far.”

David bobs his head reluctantly but he is in absolute agreement with her. There’s no denying he didn’t cope well.

“We can’t assume that just because we—”

She catches herself. She refuses to make _that_ admission at _this_ moment. She also doesn’t speak for him, even though he looks at her with anticipation and hope, almost an eagerness to co-sign her statement, but she reevaluates her words.

“We can’t assume that just because we care about each other,” she says, “that that will be enough; I don’t buy into any of that. We can’t heal each other and it’s not fair to expect as much or to put that on each other.”

David’s face grows hot with embarrassment as the realization hits him. He had believed that now that Julia was awake, everything was going to be ok, as if she’s the panacea to cure all their woes. It’s selfish of him to put that responsibility on her, especially knowing full well that she has her own recovery to concern herself with.

“I mean, look at the state of me,” she even says, examining herself. “I’m hardly in a position to help myself.”

Physical adversity aside, she also faces her own mental trauma. As strong as he knows her to be, no one is immune to the torment that already afflicts him.

“We’re both dealing with inquiries as well. The timing’s off,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s for the best that we take a step back.”

David opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He is confused and stunned. He has no more words. Not even in therapy has he exhausted himself of words. He never spoke or revealed as much in one session as he has in sitting with Julia. He finds consolation in opening up to her. Admitting so much to her is likely the reason for her withdrawal, but at least he let her in. That will have to be enough for now.

Resigned to agree with her, David gives a single nod.

The discussion is finished. Julia waves over Antony, who, despite the cheery expression on his face, is reluctant to come over to the broody twosome. Far too exhausted to take on a slow, labored walk back to her room, Julia requests a wheelchair. She and David wait in silence as Antony rushes to retrieve one. The gentlemen ever so carefully help Julia up off the sofa and into the wheelchair.

“I can get her back safely,” David says.

“Ta,” Antony smiles, though a bit pained. “I do have another patient to get to. Julia, I’ll see you later this evening.”

He throws the walker over his shoulder and speedwalks away. Julia and David share a chuckle as they watch Antony legitimately flee from the discomfort as dignified as he can. After that, they silently head back to Julia’s room.

David stalls at the corridor as Julia’s PPO starts to rejoin them. “Hold here for a minute, would you, mate?” he says to the constable.

PC Newman, a man who looks like he’d be more comfortable in a rugby kit and covered in mud than in a suit, defers to Julia.

“It’s ok, Rhys,” she says. “Sergeant Budd will send you back on his way out.”

Newman reluctantly steps back and stands at-ease as David and Julia continue on into the corridor. As they reach the last half of their journey, he places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. It takes her a moment but Julia places her hand atop his and leaves it there to rest. David slows their speed, giving him as much time as possible with this contact with her. They inevitably reach her room, but he doesn’t move to open the door. He parks them in front of it and they stay holding each other even though Julia simply stares ahead.

She clutches his fingers but allows her hand to eventually slip away. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as he lifts his hand. It hovers over her shoulder for a moment before it closes into a fist and disappears from her sight. He appears in front of her to open the door but remains in her way.

David freezes at the sight of Roger Penhaligon resting so casually on the sofa. He sits with his head tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed, one leg idly kicking as it’s crossed on the other. David imagines—far too easily—crossing the room and just popping him one good one. Instead, he counts two breaths, stretches his neck, and steps back from the doorway.

A laugh bursts from Julia’s mouth when she sees Roger, waking him. His face light up as his eyes focus on her. He rushes to his feet but his sprightliness evaporates realizing David stands behind her. His face drops.

“You can fuck right off,” Julia laughs, this time more deliberate and with a sharp edge.

The sight of him enrages her, but she’s not sure if it’s him or the onset of pain that makes her body run warm and causes her vision to become erratically unfocused. He certainly worsens her headache, but when did she ever not have a headache in the presence of Roger?

“Julia, please,” he says.

With a wry smile on his face, David wheels her past him and straight to her bed. He parks her, locking the wheels, and readies himself to help her up. She holds her hand up to him, though, postponing the shift. It’s bad enough that Roger sees her in the wheelchair. She refuses to allow him to witness any more of her weakness by being helped into bed.

“What is it that you want?” she says.

“I wanted to see you.”

David’s surprised by Roger’s sincerity and the appearance of humility. He stands fiddling with his scarf bundled in his hands. Since rising from the sofa, he hasn’t moved a step.

“Well, you’ve seen me,” Julia says.

Roger puts his shoulders back and lifts his chin to mask his embarrassment. “Can we please talk?” He glares at David. “Without him. What are you even doing here?”

The faux humility of Roger long gone, David stops feeling sorry for him and doesn’t dignify him with an answer.

“I’m sorry,” Julia starts, “does his presence violate a prohibition? Who the hell do you think you are?”

Roger’s lips twitch to speak, but he presses them shut for a moment as he swallows hard. He reconsiders his words before finally answering.

“I was protecting you.”

Julia scoffs. A wince follows as she begins to feel the painful soreness in her ribs and back. She tries not to let the pain affect her, but Roger is already making his way around the bed. Before he can reach her, David steps in between them, squaring up to the ex-husband.

“Ma’am, would you like me to show him out?”

Roger points a finger, stopping just short of David’s jaw. “You touch me and I’ll make sure they don’t just extend your suspension.”

“Actually, sir,” David says, lifting his chin to him. “I was reinstated this morning. It is perfectly within my scope to eliminate a threat to the Home Secretary.”

“I’m not a threat, you imbecile.”

“I am feeling threatened,” Julia chimes in.

Roger physically peers around David.

“You are very much a threat to me,” she says, her glare boring into him. She will not be intimidated despite having the lower ground.

Roger’s own stare expresses genuine offense and confusion. “Julia?”

“You, Mike, and Rob, and your idiotic plot! If you weren’t out to sabotage me, Tahir would not have been on that stage. PC Knowles would not have charged that stage. They—”

Julia halts full stop. She chokes on the beginning of her next words. She covers her lips with her fingertips and swallows the words back down with her tears. Roger appears sincerely affected.

“Julia...”

“You have to leave,” David says. He no longer embellishes his stance before Roger—his bodyguard façade softened by Julia’s pain.

David politely places his hands on a despondent Roger and physically turns him around and ushers him out the room. Once in the corridor, Roger’s senses return. He whips around and tries to get through David, who easily fends him off.

“Out of my way! I need to explain myself. I will not have her informed of anything by you.”

“Why? Because I’ll tell her the truth?” David scoffs, spurred on by the vitriol in Roger’s voice. David doesn’t bother suppressing his condescending smirk. He does let it naturally dissolve, though, as he realizes a truth that will ward Roger off. “I don’t know if you noticed, sir, but Julia is still under the impression that Tahir Mahmood simply had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and not that it was also his presence that triggered the explosive.” He begins walking, forcing Roger to start backpedaling. “She will eventually learn that, though, and I recommend you steer clear of her.” He grins at him. “For your safety and all.”

The disgust that seems to live on Roger’s face intensifies, but David continues grinning. He can see in his periphery that Roger clenches his hands into fists. David holds his ground, the least bit intimidated.

“You will ruin her,” Roger growls.

He turns on his heels and stomps down the corridor. David watches until he disappears. His left thumb tucked in his fist, he clenches hard. He grimaces, upset that he’s allowed Roger’s words to infect him, and so easily. Upset that Roger could very well be right.

David shakes his head and starts back to Julia. He can’t ruminate with Roger’s words if he wanted to because he’s surprised to see Julia has helped herself out of her wheelchair. She’s securely propped herself up against the bed.

“Julia!” he scolds.

He hurries over to her but she holds up her hand, keeping him at a distance.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Julia bobs her head as she catches her breath. It was a gruesome struggle pushing herself out of the wheelchair. Once she was up, she simply steered her bottom to the closest surface. She didn’t have the strength to climb into the bed and isn’t confident in her ability to bring herself back to the wheelchair. So there she remains, at an impasse, sitting on the edge of her bed but still standing on her legs. As soon as she gets her second wind, hopefully she’ll be able to continue the rest of the journey back to comfort.

“What do you think Roger will do when he finds out I wasn’t really reinstated?”

“Not much he can do,” Julia smirks. Her cheeks are warm with amusement. “You enjoy winding him up, don’t you?”

David considers the mature response, that that wasn’t his aim, but that would be a lie. A smile stretches across his face. “I really do,” he nods, legitimate satisfaction in his voice.

“It is fun.”

They smile at each other and relish in the enjoyment they share. It would be so easy for them to just continue living in this happiness and ignore all the rest. For a fleeting moment, Julia considers it. The possibilities of that future makes her feel excited in a way she’s not sure she’s felt before. A happiness she knows she’s never felt before.

Pain and discomfort override the potential of happiness. She adjusts herself to sit more securely on the bed’s edge and nearly stumbles. David rushes to her with just a few swift strides but comes to a stop short of her, running right into her hand. She looks at him and realizes she is once again a slight bird; she sighs in disappointment.

“I’m ok,” she insists. “You should go.”

He should, but he can’t bring himself to move. Her hand remains on his chest. She won’t let him any closer but she also doesn’t push him away. He would stand there until the end of time if she would let him, but he knows she wants him to go and he should.

David places his hand on hers and presses it into his chest, to really feel and imprint her touch on himself. It’s as close to an embrace as he will get.

He holds onto her tight and Julia finds herself glad in a number of ways. Namely, there isn’t enough give under his hand to curl hers around his jumper. She would find herself not wanting to let go. Though, she did try. Instead, her palm rests flat. She can feel his breast bone and his heart beating against it. Eventually, she can’t be sure it is his heartbeat she feels in her hand or her own.

After dozens of synchronized heartbeats, David reluctantly removes Julia’s hand and releases her. He lowers his head, staring at the spot where her hand had rested, and begins to leave.

“Wait,” she says.

He’s hardly started to turn back to her when Julia grabs his lapels and tugs him toward her, strong and fast, and right onto her lips. He sees her eyes closed tight and quickly mirrors her to savor their kiss. Both her hands slide up his chest and find his neck. Her thumbs stroke his beard as she simply holds him to her lips. She has to fight the urge to pull him further into her when she feels and hears his quiet moan.

David counts what would have been two deep breaths if he had remembered to breathe before Julia pulls away from his mouth. She brings their foreheads together, letting him rest on her. He remains as if he’s still kissing her; his eyes closed, his lips slightly open and puckered. The presence and pressure of her on his lips begins to disappear but he can feel her mouth hovering in front of his. The warmth of her breath blankets his lips. He hopes she’ll come back, so he stays still, waiting for her.

“I was afraid I might forget,” she says.

He feels her words dance through his beard, tickling his skin. He nods as he tastes her on his lips. The reluctance to go grows stronger but that just means he has to leave now more than ever. Julia starts the departure. She finally withdraws and even slightly pushes him away as she does.

“I don’t know how long...” she begins to say.

David shakes his head, dismissing any concept of a time frame. “I can wait,” he says. “For you, I can wait.”

Julia allows herself to offer a shy smile and a nod of appreciation.

They hold onto each other with their stares until Julia, once again, is the first to act. She lifts her chin but drops her eyes and locks them to the floor. David exhales a soft, quiet chuckle to himself, amused. She doesn’t have to make a show of being strong. He knows she is. He feels it.

It’s only when the door closes that she looks back up and finds herself alone. Yet, again.

Julia remains sitting against her bed’s edge until Frances returns with David’s lamb kebab.

She asks for her mother’s help into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> _“You’ve been through a lot.”_
> 
> _“So everyone keeps saying.”_
> 
> _She looks him in the eyes. She gives nothing away on her face. She speaks firmly and as evenly as she can. She’ll only poke with sarcasm when it calls for it and not aggressively jab like she’ll want to do._
> 
> _Dr. Percy confidently steps up to the foot of her bed. “You’re absolutely free to tell me to fuck off again, but before you do,” he says holding up his hands interrupting her from interrupting him. She closes her mouth and allows him to proceed. “Let me remind you: IOPC is requiring full medical clearance for you. That includes getting signed off psychiatrically. You have to talk to me eventually.”_  
>   
>   
>  [Author's note: Progress update-- _Now_ we're a third of the way there. Or, geez, who knows? These goal posts might get moved again. Sorry. But thank you for sticking with me! <3]


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treatment for Julia. Treatment for David.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of suicide.

He rests the cup on his knee, which bizarrely becomes an invitation for his legs to start manically bouncing. Warm coffee spills from the lid’s opening, dropping onto the webbing between his thumb and index finger. While he still holds the cup, he slurps his hand clean and takes a healthy sip of coffee. He returns the cup to his bouncing knee and is pleased with himself when no more of his beverage escapes.

He can just save himself the worry by putting the cup down. He could have really saved himself from the start by ordering a decaf, but that was never a consideration for him. Decaf? The way he’s been existing? It's never a consideration. A regular coffee is automatic. But after another night of at least four hours of sleep, maybe decaf should have been a consideration; he woke up re-energized.

“Re-energized” for David. Meaning he woke up and didn’t linger in bed longer than what had become typical of him. Meaning he finally really looked at himself in the mirror and told himself that things were going to change. In time, he’ll reach a “re-energized” that will actually resemble energy that is adequately representative of the word. He still slogs about, but the little increments of positive living are a great improvement.

Even after leaving Julia the other day, as devastated as he was, he didn’t just go back to his flat in Camden and continue to aimlessly and idly pack it away as he did for the past couple of weeks. He finally started progressing and did so with determination. In that time of weeks of drawn-out packing, he only managed to do half the kitchen, some of his own room, part of the kids’ room, and very little of the living area. Now, the kitchen is completely packed away. As is his room. He disassembled the kids’ bunkbed and readied it for transport. The living room he decided would have to mostly be given away, if not chucked outright.

All of that was accomplished in hours. Surely he could have packed away the whole flat but he was happy to cease progress to fetch Ella and Charlie from school and tucker them out at the park. Before doing so, he had signed for the new place and picked up the keys.

David doesn’t know what it is going to take for either him or Julia to be ready for each other again, but he is going to do everything within his control to get there.

The door in front of him opens and Dr. Nicholson appears with a welcoming smile.

“Morning, David. You ready?”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he gives a nod. He drops his unfinished coffee into the bin on the way into Dr. Nicholson’s office. 

* * *

Her hip (and her whole body, really) is tender to the touch but she continues to rub it with as much pressure as she can as if that will alleviate the pain. It’s a futile attempt. She can’t reach the pain to ease it.

She gives up and leans back into the love seat. She tries to feel the warmth of the daylight but the cloud coverage is just too much. Rain must surely be in the forecast. It’s idiotic to be upset that the sun doesn’t want to come out during the winter in London, but Julia’s fine with being an idiot for a few minutes. The sun is the one thing she has to look forward to whenever Antony knocks on her door. If she’s going to make the effort to get out and about, the weather needs to do the same.

Julia laughs at the ridiculousness of herself. She has certifiably gone mad in just the two days she’s been awake. Too much is occurring outside of the hospital walls for her to stay sane, even though according to what she manages to read in the papers and watch (or mostly just listen to) on the television, things are relatively quiet in Westminster as both Houses prepare to go on recess for the holiday. Julia sees that, though, as the perfect opportunity to get back to work.

With the Home Office now aware of her much-improved condition, she urged them to send the whole team so that she may get caught up on the goings-on in the Home Office and Westminster Palace. She wouldn’t have minded confronting Rob and Mike; she actually looks forward to it. However, with the media and public still in the dark, it would certainly be suspect for the acting-Home Secretary and the whole lot to file into Royal London Hospital. News outlets aren’t even being notified of the Home Secretary’s release until the morning of. The last thing they all needed was the media descending on the hospital. Even if they did and the weasliest of the media somehow managed to sneak into her hospital wing, there would be nothing, and certainly no one, to discover.

At the very least, Julia insisted the Home Office send her her Parliamentary Private Secretary, which honestly, is much preferable; Ava’s is the only company Julia is happy to welcome. She’s also someone Julia hopes to have beside her as she finally leaves the hospital and faces the press.

The doctors, her mother, her PPS, and her PPO. That’s who she will stand with in front of the cameras and the crowd, and she is determined to stand.

“I’m ready,” she says to Antony.

He offers her his hands but she manages on her own. She slides her arms into her crutches and starts leading the way back to her room. It’s her first day with the forearm crutches and already she’s gone from stumbling about like a newborn giraffe to developing a gait that comes pretty damn close to her actual, healthy gait. For the time being, her strides on her left leg will last a little longer than those on her right, which she is cautious and careful with, but her range of motion is impressive. There’s nothing wrong with the mechanics of her hip or any of the rest of her injured bones and joints. It’s the attacks of pain and lingering soreness that makes her dependent on the crutches.

Before entering the corridor, Julia looks back out the large windows of the atrium. She subtly glances at the love seat. She sighs heavily and tells herself to stop being so upset about the weather. 

* * *

David regrets binning his coffee. The caffeine was counterintuitive at the time, but it would be useful to him now as the emotional fatigue is already beginning to set in. Serves him right for foolishly believing a night’s sleep was enough to hold him over. Serves him right for foolishly thinking that his problems are so easily fixed.

While Dr. Nicholson elaborates on Ledley’s theory about the inquests facilitating closure, David lowers his head and tries to rub life back into his eyes. He reminds himself of his shoulders and they drop a couple of inches. In doing so, he settles further into the plush leather chair, and as he listens to Nicholson speak with her pleasantly warm and even tone, he has to force his eyelids open with each blink.

“The other bright side is that we can easily simulate an inquest,” she says. “We can go so far as to stage a mock inquest in an actual courtroom with an actual barrister. We can have people sit in as the coroner and members in the gallery.”

David perks up. Even just the thought of a pretend inquest makes his insides turn. Filled with the massive protein shake he guzzled down on the drive in and the half cup of coffee, it would be effortless for his stomach to revolt. He focuses his energy on calming himself to prevent the reappearance of his breakfast.

 _One_.

“But we’ll start with simply running through possible questions and preparing those answers.”

 _Two_.

David doesn’t hide the sharp exhale before he bobs his head in understanding and approval. Dr. Nicholson studies him with a skepticism that she’s able to disguise as simple examination.

“How are you faring on the Cipralex?” she asks.

He thinks back to his lengthy conversation with Julia from two days ago. He remembers it vividly and shakes his head. “The anxiety is kicking off again.”

“As bad as before?”

Trying to quantify his anxiety attacks seems pointless. They feel awful regardless. He does have to admit that there are degrees to them, though.

“No,” he says. “I suppose I’ve got a better hold of myself. The breathing does help.”

“Good.”

“But it’s still far too easy, doc.”

“What is?”

“The flashbacks.” He has to shake his head to ward them off even now. “They come to me too easily and it’s just like I’m there. If I allow myself to think about it, I’m back in the Foxhound, I’m on the train, I’m in the car, I’m in the auditorium, I’m in the vest.” He starts massaging the knuckle of his left thumb and wriggling his jaw, but he ends up clamping back down and gritting his teeth. “I want them to stop.”

“You know that’s not how that works, David.”

“No, I know,” he says sullenly. “What I really want is just to be better.”

He stares out the window at the sprawling view. The City grabs his focus but if he looks eastward, he can see Royal London Hospital. The aqua blue exterior cuts through distant showers and through the grayness of winter. It doesn’t seem all that far but it certainly feels out of reach.

“We’re going to get you better. There are a couple of therapy approaches I’d like us to try, but until then, we can up the Cipralex to 10mg if you’d like. Are you experiencing any other side effects, besides the sleep issues?”

“Actually,” he says quite brightly, excited to report the news to Nicholson, “I’ve had a couple good nights of rest.”

“ _Rest_ or _sleep_?”

David smiles to himself. “Sleep.”

Nicholson, typically stellar at wearing just a neutral, receptive expression on her face, can’t even contain her pleasant surprise; her eyebrows slightly jump. She clasps her hands around her pen and leaves them to rest on her notebook.

“Let’s hear about these good nights of sleep.”

“Well, I’m not falling asleep at a proper hour,” he says, recalling the multiple glances at the clock as he lied in bed, “but I’m getting continuous hours of sleep. Maybe even a whole proper night’s worth. Maybe because I’ve been so exhausted between the kids and the new house—”

“You’re always exhausted, though, David; you haven’t slept in weeks,” Nicholson says. “So what’s different?”

He takes a deep breath as a smile stretches across his face. “Julia’s awake.” 

* * *

As they approach her hospital room, both Antony and PC Fenton move to fully open the door that had been left ajar, but Julia reaches it first with her crutch. She easily shoves it all the way back, giving her clearance to walk on through, but she pauses at the threshold.

Dr. Percy, having previously been looking out the windows up at the clouds and assessing the longevity of the rain, recovers from being startled by the door. He undoes the blazer of his bespoke suit to bend over and retrieve his dropped leather portfolio. After careful examination of it, he retrieves a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and carefully and precisely wipes away the dirt. When he stands back upright, he meticulously tucks away his handkerchief and then buttons his blazer closed. He puts on a smile only after he settles his appearance.

“Good morning, Julia.”

She carries on into her room. With effortless coordination, she brings a crutch forward and steps, brings the other forward and steps, repeating with slow ease all the way across the room. She secures her crutches against the chair next to her bed and allows Antony to help her climb in.

“Thank you so much, Antony.”

“Hand to heart, you’re doing really well,” he says. He finishes tucking her in and pats her on the foot. “Get some rest, please. I’ll see you later.”

She sends him off with an appreciative smile and watches as he leaves. He acknowledges her visitor with a nod but when he looks back at her as he begins to close the door, he wonders if Julia needs him to stay. She assuredly waves Antony away. Percy may appear hawkish, but Julia can absolutely handle him.

“You weren’t kidding about ‘every day’,” she says, finally acknowledging her psychiatrist’s presence.

“Well, we need to talk. You’ve been through a lot.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

She looks him in the eyes. She gives nothing away on her face. She speaks firmly and as evenly as she can. She’ll only poke with sarcasm when it calls for it and not aggressively jab like she’ll want to do.

Dr. Percy confidently steps up to the foot of her bed. “You’re absolutely free to tell me to fuck off again, but before you do,” he says holding up his hands interrupting her from interrupting him. She closes her mouth and allows him to proceed. “Let me remind you: IOPC is requiring full medical clearance for you. That includes getting signed off psychiatrically. You have to talk to me eventually.”

“What have they told you?” she demands to know.

Percy’s eyes narrow. “What are you worried they’ve told me?”

Julia rolls her eyes and emphasizes her sigh. Percy takes that as permission to stay. When she doesn’t offer him a seat, he helps himself to the one next to her bed. He unbuttons his blazer before taking her crutches and laying them down on the ground.

“That way you can’t flee,” he smirks, but she doesn’t mirror his amusement.

He settles into the chair and unpacks his portfolio. He takes his time retrieving his notebook and digging for a writing instrument. Julia doesn’t mind. She happily sits in the silence and would happily continue to do so. Unfortunately, she knows Percy as well as he knows her. He likes to make a show of the way he moves and appears, but when it comes to his actual craft, he’s direct and brilliantly intuitive.

“Where would you like to begin?” he says, primed to start scribbling away. “Work and the IOPC? Thornton Circus? St. Matthew’s? Your recovery? Your nurse there—Antony, was it?—he pleaded a bit for you to get some rest. Are you having trouble sleeping?”

Julia pushes her head back further into her pillow as she stares up at the ceiling. She knows the geography of it far too well. She’s memorized the rows and columns of the tiles and their distinguishing features. Which tiles have water stains? Julia can describe them like moves on a chess board.

The first night, Frances somehow slept comfortably in the armchair by her side while she simply lied back and let her eyes adjust to the dark. So began her study of the ceiling that carried on into the second night, which is such to carry on for the foreseeable future.

“Of course I’m having trouble sleeping,” Julia sighs.

“How come?”

An exaggerated scoff escapes from Julia’s mouth. “Apparently, you’ve the list, Billy. Take your pick.”

“You’re right; stupid question,” he says, nodding and accepting accountability. “Entertain me, though: Elaborate.”

As she thinks about everything—every single element—her chest tightens. “My work quite literally almost killed me,” she says, and she immediately feels a little relief. “I was shot at and lost my driver, whose blood I was basically bathed in. I wasn’t allowed to return to my own home. Still haven’t been back in nearly months now. Still won’t be able to return anytime soon by the sound of it, which is _just_ how I wanted to spend my Christmas.”

There was a little too much bite in her sarcasm, even a little venom, but she couldn’t help it. It came as naturally as the words that flowed out of her. She had seen green lights ahead when she noticed that Percy wasn’t writing anything down, and there’s still plenty left in the tank.

“I was very nearly blown up,” she drives on. “My PR aide and one of my CPOs unfortunately were, along with five others. Nearly everyone in that auditorium was wounded in some fashion. Though I was the one targeted, I somehow wasn’t killed. Instead, I was _simply_ ‘critically injured’. I look like a stitched up rag-doll and feel like a porcelain doll. I am in such constant pain that I can’t recall what it’s like to not feel this way. I suffered severe internal damage, the effects of which will be lasting or lingering, like my currently inability to fucking read; and who knows for how long? I’ve no idea if work actually is waiting for me, and if it is, I’ve no idea how I’ll be able to do my job with my newly acquired illiteracy. I’ve also no clue of the public perception of me and whether it will even be worth it to return to work. I’m also simply afraid of closing my eyes at night; I am haunted by nightmares. Despite my protection detail and the armed guards, I do not feel safe. I have no one. I refuse to accept my mother’s help. I have abandoned David—”

She had held her stare into Percy until her confidence quickly shifted to dismay and embarrassment. She drops her eye contact and turns away.

“‘David’ as in Police Sergeant David Budd, your PPO? That ‘David’?”

“So they have told you something,” she says into her lap.

“Well, he is quite notorious,” he says, and then he sighs in resignation, “but, yes, IOPC have informed me of the impending investigation.”

Julia looks back at Percy, her eyes still narrowed from the beginning of his statement. “What do you mean ‘notorious’?”

“You don’t know? He hasn’t told you?”

Her heart begins to race. The egregious ignorance she helplessly finds herself in horrifies her.

“Maybe he should explain himself,” Percy says.

His phrasing unnerves her even more. “What?”

“Julia, I don’t have the details. All I know is what was reported in the news. I mustn’t be the one to apprise you.”

She runs her hand through her hair and leaves it there to keep her head propped up. She stares off, attempting to decipher “notorious,” to keep the fear of the unknown from pushing her into a panic attack.

Percy senses the frantic energy. “Would you like to tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Nope.”

He sighs, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “I am here in service of you, Julia, not the IOPC. The obligatory communication between them and myself only concerns your mental suitability and stability. Nothing else. If they come to me seeking information for their investigation, doctor-patient confidentiality protects you. They will not receive any insight from me. So talk to me about David if you want. Or not. Up to you.”

Percy caps his fountain pen closed and slides it into the breast pocket of his blazer. He closes the notebook, crosses his legs under it, and anchors his hands around his knee. He waits. That is, until he remembers that Julia’s strong will and impressive stubbornness gives her the ability to endure a long standoff.

“If you must leave the digging to me,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Why do you think you’ve abandoned David?”

Julia crosses her arms in front of her chest and lifts her chin. She tries to hold her pose but the pain in her hip reemerges, causing her to grimace and fold. If psychotherapy keeps her mind off the pain, she doesn’t have much of a choice. She surrenders the façade of strength and lets her arms drop to her sides, appearing as hopeless as she actually feels.

“I pushed him away,” she says. “He is broken and ‘lost’ and I pushed him away.”

In her head, she can see David’s eyes widen in shock as she pulled away from him and refused his hand. She feels the twinge in her chest that accompanies the image. Unfortunately for her, that memory has constantly been replaying in her mind.

“Why?”

“Why did I push him away?” She looks down at her hand fiddling with the signet ring that isn’t there; it doesn’t feel as comforting as when David had done it days before. She takes a moment to think, as if she doesn’t know the answer. She does. “There was a real possibility that I could have legitimately lost him, and it terrified me.”

“What do you mean by that? How would you have ‘legitimately lost him’?”

“He put a fucking gun to his head,” she says matter-of-factly.

Percy’s eyebrows lift slightly, more in response to Julia’s reaction than the act itself. “Ah. That is terrifying. How is he now?”

“He’s getting help.”

“Is he still at risk of harming himself?”

The concept makes her shudder. She replays what David had said to her. He had seemed so broken—it breaks her heart all over again—but there was also a sense of hope. All she can go on is her belief that she knows him.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then how have you abandoned him? You say he is broken and lost. Are you the one to fix him? To find him?”

“No,” Julia answers immediately. “Only he can do that, but I regret pushing him away. I could be there to support him.”

Percy’s eyes narrow. “Ok, let’s say that you could, what is stopping you from ringing him and telling him you made a mistake?”

Her head tilts. She sits straighter and pulls her shoulders back. “I’ve regretted making some hard choices,” she says, “but that didn’t mean they were mistakes.”

Percy bobs his head, accepting her logic. “Then you have to stop framing it as abandonment, because that is not what you have done, Julia. In my opinion, I think you did the right thing, because—and I will go ahead and say it—You have your own PTSD struggles to contend with.” 

* * *

David has long forgotten his posture, even as it prohibits him from taking a fulfilling, deep breath. The longer he went on recounting his day with Julia, the more he sat huddled. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. For a period of time, a hand concealed his face, resting on his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose, or rubbing his eyes. He goes back to massaging the thumb knuckle he’s sure he’s injured from the constant bending and pulling.

Dr. Nicholson watches as he does. She’s been particularly interested in the fiddling he does with that thumb, taking notes every time he does.

“I told her I tried to kill myself,” he finally says.

She stops writing mid-sentence and looks up from her notebook. Her eyes light up in a way he expected them to.

Nearly ten sessions in and they’ve only spoken about the suicide attempt in passing, really. In his first meeting with Dr. Nicholson, David explicitly admitted that he tried to shoot himself. He then insisted that he no longer had those thoughts or ideations. End of discussion. From then on, it was Nicholson who would broach the subject and David would simply reiterate that he wasn’t going to kill himself. The doc would move on, not wanting to belabor that he was suicidal. Importance lies in David’s control of the conversation.

“Well, not in so many words,” he says, “but she knows now.”

“How did it feel to tell her?”

“I was embarrassed and ashamed but it was an enormous relief,” he says, his eyes tearing up as he remembers that feeling of the weight lifting off all over again.

“‘Not in so many words’,” Nicholson repeats. “How exactly did the conversation go?”

He closes his eyes to recall the memory, but as soon as he is confronted with it, he tilts his head and shakes it away. “You remember the day after the explosion, the news reported that Julia had died?”

“Of course.”

“I told her about that and that I didn’t handle it well. She figured it out from there,” he says as he points toward the scar on the right side of his head. He nervously combs his hair down over it, insuring that it is covered. He’ll have to be careful how short he trims his hair on the sides.

“And how did she respond?”

“Like I had frightened her,” he says, “which I did. So, she understandably took a step back; she asked for time.”

Nicholson leans forward on her notebook. “David, it’s really great that you allowed yourself to be the most vulnerable with Julia, but I think you’re going to have to revisit the conversation with her, and you’ll have to be more direct and elaborate.”

David’s eyebrows furrow. “What? Why?”

“I know it wasn’t your intention,” she says, “but leaving it for Julia to figure out and think over, I’m afraid you might have placed the onus of your suicide attempt on her, and that’s not entirely the case, is it?”

“Of course not,” he insists, though it’s not the doctor he needs to convince.

He buries his face in his hands, wishing he could scream into them. Instead, he clenches his jaws shut, clamping down hard and testing the durability of his own teeth. Dr. Nicholson is right. In being cautious, or afraid, even, he had left the situation too vague, misleading Julia.

“You can fix this. All you have to do is talk to Julia.”

He looks up, palms held out. “How am I supposed to do that? We agreed to give each other time, and even if I could speak with her, I can’t weigh her down with all of this right now.”

“Fair,” Nicholson says, bobbing her head. “It is heavy, but if only for a moment, David, because I truly believe your suicide attempt is behind you.”

His eyes light up and air fills his lungs. Hearing that validates what he himself believes. It provides him with relief he had once thought to be unattainable but was now a common occurrence with each new revealing admission. His relief is short-lived when he looks at the wider perspective and comes to a realization—It is not the outcome of any of the investigations into him that would lead to a dismissal.

He cradles one hand with the other and brings it to his lips, holding a kiss against his thumb. “I’ve still hurt my chances of remaining a copper, haven’t I?”

“No, David, you’ve done very much the opposite. You know that you’re not the first among your colleagues to think about or attempt suicide, but you are among the rare few that seek help. Unfortunately, and yet fortunately, given your notoriety due to the incidents following St. Matthew’s, your peers are aware that you are receiving treatment, but that’s led to an increase in patients for me and my colleagues.”

He listens intently as Nicholson theorizes.

“If you can be the example—the success story—then we could be saving a lot of lives here, in an infinite number of ways. ‘Success’ will be constant work. Possibly never-ending, but I’m willing to work with you to protect yourself if you’re willing to do the same.”

David studies the floor as if formulating his response, but he already knows that he is willing. There are no panaceas. There are no quick fixes. Everything will take work. David responds to Dr. Nicholson by bobbing his head affirmatively.

“This has been a conversation I’ve kept open with DPS and MPS and I promise I will do my best to champion you,” Nicholson says.

His heart beats fast, but freely and energized. His cheeks flush with embarrassment; it’s unfamiliar territory for him to receive help, even if Nicholson is simply doing her job. He offers her an appreciative smirk.

“Best-case scenario, how soon do you think you’d give DPS and my bosses an ‘ok’ to return to work?”

“David, I don’t want to guess—”

“Doc, I need to be of some use,” he pleads. “I just can’t with these idle days, especially because I won’t be making trips to the hospital…”

“Ella and Charlie. The new house.”

“Right now, they’re still in school, and then beyond Christmas, the kids are going on holiday for New Year’s and then they’ll be back in school. As far as the house, I’m making quick progress. That’ll get taken care of in no time.”

Nicholson sighs. “I’ll discuss it with DCI Medwin when we speak at the end of the week,” she says, “but I can’t promise anything. I certainly can’t promise active field duty anytime soon.” She glances down at her watch and gets to her feet. “We’ll discuss ways to keep you occupied at your session on Friday.”

“I just need a purpose, even if temporary.”

He stands and takes a step with Nicholson as they start for the door together but halts.

“There is one other thing,” he says. “Real quick—though I know we’ll have to talk about it more in depth next time—but I’m wondering if there’s anything I could do about it.”

Nicholson is open for him to elaborate.

“I’ve developed this weird habit.”

“Right,” she says, glancing down at his hands, finding that his left thumb is again buried in his right hand.

“I find myself jerking my head at times.”

He inadvertently demonstrates with his head doing a half-turn. He grabs his jaw before his head returns to center, returning it there himself and rubbing his beard as if to mask the thing he just admitted to.

“Ah, that,” Nicholson nods. “Well, tics are not uncommon in those with PTSD. It could just be another symptom. Though, you were awfully close to the blast. Maybe you did suffer head trauma. We can have a neurologist check you out.”

 _I’d rather the tics_ , he thinks. He can’t bear to get involved with yet another medical professional and re-establish his medical history.

“No, I’m sure I was fine after the explosion. They don’t interfere much, but I was just hoping there was something to be done.”

“You know when they’re interfering?”

He thinks back to when they do. He recalls his head was quite twitchy during his lengthy conversation with Julia and he realizes that it happens often in the presence of Dr. Nicholson. It’s clear to him when and why the tics occur.

“Usually when I’m uncomfortable,” he says, sugarcoating it. “So, if they’re a symptom, then I suppose they’ll just be treated as we treat the PTSD.”

“Yes. Hopefully.”

David sighs. He expresses his appreciation with a nod and starts back for the door until Nicholson grabs him by the arm.

“Hold on, David. On the topic of habits: Can I ask you about your hands?”

He looks down at them hanging at his sides.

“You fiddle with your left thumb often,” Nicholson says. “You were massaging it quite a bit in particular today. Did you hurt it?”

He involuntarily pinches the knuckle. He quickly holds his hands together to disguise the action. “I just never know what to do with my hands,” he explains with an affable chuckle, trying to sell his lie.

David shoves his left hand into his pocket and offers Dr. Nicholson his right. Over her shoulder, he catches sight of the blue-tiled hospital off in the distance. It’ll take everything in him to drive home in the opposite direction. 

* * *

Julia stifles a yawn and forces her eyes to stay open. She hears Percy speedily writing and promptly livens herself up. Despite her silent protest against continuing with the session, he constantly found things to write about.

“We have a list to tackle,” he says, looking down at his notebook.

So that’s what he was writing. It was foolish of Julia to believe she could rattle off _all_ of her grievances and Percy wouldn’t remember them all.

“There are a few things here we can address right away.” He scans up and down the list and makes a few ticks. “Sleep and safety being paramount.”

Julia remains silent. Once again, she lets her head drop back on her pillow and closes her eyes. Since Percy stays, she figures she might as well try to rest while he’s nearby.

“You know,” he says, interrupting her micro-nap, “I have some colleagues at St. Luke’s Clinic. When we move you in in a couple of days, I could have a word with them and see what we could do to get you home for Christmas.”

She begrudgingly lifts her eyelids open.

Percy puts on a wide smile when he sees her glare at him out of the corner of her eyes. “We really need to address your feeling of danger,” he tells her.

She thinks about PC Fenton just outside her door, PS Miller at the elevators, and PC Newman out in the atrium. She imagines the uniformed police officers at all the entrances to her wing of the hospital and the ones roaming the perimeter of the hospital. None of it is enough.

“Feeling safe is incredibly important,” Percy says. “If you don’t exist in a comfortable space, then not a lot really matters. Your recovery suffers because of it.”

“Then what do I do?”

“You feel safe however you feel safe.”

Julia takes a deep breath and lifts her chin. “And if that’s David?”

“Oh.” Percy freezes with his lips still circled and his eyes just as round. Eventually, he starts bobbing his head as he finally comprehends Julia’s previous reluctance and current predicament. “Then you might want to reconsider shutting him out.”

Julia turns to finally look at Percy squarely to give him a proper glare. “I have to learn to be ok without him.”

He gives a chuckle. “I think you’re overpreparing here.” He swallows hard, careful of his approach. “I know that after what happened with Roger, you’ve been more than content to be on your own, and that’s all you’ve known for years now, but David doesn’t seem like he’s Roger—”

“He most definitely is not,” Julia scoffs.

“No, you’re right,” Percy laughs. “That much is already very clear. What I’m trying to say is, maybe be a little less pragmatic. Maybe you and David will last. Maybe you won’t end.”

With a hiked up brow, Julia simply stares at him, waiting for the realization to dawn on him. When it finally does, Percy relaxes, settling into the chair with a sympathetic look on his face.

“It will end, because it will end in the way that we all ultimately do,” he realizes. “You’re already bracing yourself for his death.”

Julia purses her lips together. “I won’t cry,” she says, shaking her head and trying to ward off the tears she feels rising. “I’ve done enough of that.” She takes a deep breath as she successfully battles her tears. “Twice already I’ve been confronted with the possibility of David being dead, and I despise how out of control I’ve felt. He’s in a dangerous line of work; I just have to steel myself.”

Percy closes his notebook and drops it to the floor. “If you feel for David as strongly as I perceive you to do, you will never be able to prepare for losing him in that way. No one can.”

“My mother—”

“You don’t think your mother felt out of control when your father died? I suggest you have a conversation with Frances.”

Julia holds her stare on him but he challenges her. She drops her eyes onto her hands. She matches up her fingers and then presses her palms together. She lets her fingers slide down, intertwining them, and holds hands with herself.

It doesn’t feel the same.

“I think you should consider letting David back in,” Percy says.

“You said I was right to push him away.”

“I did,” he admits, “but you’re feeling unsafe, Julia, and if David can provide even a modicum of protection, then you must reconsider.”

Percy can visibly see Julia’s reluctance. It’s a look only slightly different from her stubbornness. The doubt and concern in her eyes is what distinguishes the two.

“I know—you cherish your autonomy,” he continues. “Needing someone is obviously antithetical to that, but we really need you to feel safe and comfortable again. Otherwise, what autonomy do you really have?”

“To be independent, I need to be dependent?”

“I won’t let you become dependent. I believe it won’t even come to that. You’re stronger than you, right now, think you are. I think you’re doubting yourself because of your state. Right now you are vulnerable, and that’s ok. You are weak. Legitimately. In every conceivable way. How could you not be after what you’ve been through; but you won’t stay that way for long, will you?”

Julia examines herself. She looks at her atrophied limbs hidden in her leggings and cardigan, but they’ve been getting thicker with each egg mayo sandwich. She thinks about her hip and the crutches lying on the ground beside her bed, but she’s moving like the able-bodied person she is fortunate to still be. She focuses on the headache that lingers, but if she doesn’t think about it, it doesn’t bother.

There is merit to what Percy says.

“You are strong and weak; Congratulations, you’re human,” he grins. “Let’s look at it this way: To help with the insomnia, I am going to strongly suggest an antihistamine. It will only help you fall asleep, but you will take it from there and sleep the rest of the night. Allow David to serve a similar function.”

“You’re saying David is an antihistamine?”

“It’s not the most sound analogy,” Percy says, rolling his eyes, “but you know what I mean. Introduce David back into your life. Allow him to be the catalyst to safety. If it becomes too much to bear, then we’ll find other ways for you to feel safe.”

As he leans down and retrieves his notebook to pack away and prepare to leave, Julia tries to evaluate how she wants David back in her life. She imagines the idyllic too easily. She doesn’t quite deserve it, yet.

Percy slaps at his thighs and gets to his feet. He bounces his shoulders as he stands tall, settling his blazer back into place. He gives it a tug before securing the top two buttons.

“I often find that life has a way of working itself out, so long as we stop getting in the way of ourselves,” he says. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Julia looks out the window, at the remnants of the rain sliding down the glass and the sun shining through. She rests her head against her pillow and closes her eyes, trying to grasp the warmth.

“See you tomorrow,” she sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
>  _“Lou told me your girlfriend woke up,” Erik says._
> 
> _David freezes, his cheeks stuffed with paella. His eyes find Louise and narrow._
> 
> _“I said, ‘Home Secretary’,” she says, holding up her hands and expressing innocence. She laughs and helps herself to one of David’s beers. “‘Girlfriend’ is all him, but I also never corrected him.” A smile on her face, she cheekily shrugs as she takes a drink._
> 
> _Erik’s eyes dart between the two. “Is she not?”_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia makes a number of calls.
> 
> David relaxes.

If she wasn’t already bothered by the pain or the fear or the guilt, her excitement for the day would have been responsible for her third sleepless night in a row. Just the third night, though. There was no excitement had the first two nights.

The first night, the guilt was over David. The second night, it was the guilt over David in addition to the unsettling recollection that seven people had died in the blast at St. Matthew’s and she had lived. She continues to live.

It doesn’t make sense to her. It never will.

And because of that, she may never be able to sleep again.

The guilt had tempered her excitement for Ava’s arrival, but there was enough excitement that kept her mind running at night when it should have been easing to rest. There’s too much to discuss. Julia tried to prioritize everything she wanted to know. The list was ever changing. Items shifted ranks depending on urgency or personal preference. Sometimes she forgot items, remembering them two or three passes later. It happened frequently enough that it began to add a completely new layer of stress. She reasoned that the lack of short-term memory was possibly just her sleep-deprived mind making careless errors. If she thought about it too much, her mind drifted to the possibility of brain damage.

Julia always settles on the former, willfully ignoring the latter.

Her head must be getting right again. She’s been rehabbing it and making progress. She convinced Lucy, her occupational therapist, to work with her twice a day, even if the sessions do feel like primary school tutoring. In the morning, they read. She can hardly make it through the first page of the paper without a break, but that’s already miles better than days ago. They then spend time watching television, retraining her eyes and brain to tolerate the bright, moving images on screen.

In the evening, she attempts to work _with_ screens. So long as the brightness is low and the font large, she gets by well enough on a computer. It takes a little more effort fiddling with the smaller screens of a tablet or phone; emails and texts will just have to be even more concise. After just ten minutes, she always finds herself needing a break from the screens. Though it crucial for her to re-familiarize herself with technology, Julia and Lucy discovered there needed to be a particularly emphasized focus on handwriting, because Julia has forgotten how she holds a pen. No matter how she grips it, nothing feels familiar, and so it goes, the handwriting—what she’s passing off as handwriting—certainly doesn’t look familiar.

Even though her therapy session ended an hour ago, Julia still practices her writing while her mother lounges on the sofa, knitting Uncle Arthur’s Christmas gift and occasionally flipping the television back and forth between BBC News and BBC Parliament. Julia tries to make her signature look like her signature again, carefully dragging the ball point on line after line.

_“Last week, the Houthi rebels and the Government of Yemen held their first direct peace talks since 2016.”_

Out of the corner of her eyes, she watches The Right Honourable Matthew Chase at the despatch box in the Commons Chamber. She returns her focus to the legal pad in front of her but keeps her ears trained to the television.

_“The negotiations in Stockholm reached agreement on a ceasefire—”_

Julia looks at her mother just as Frances lowers her arm, television remote in hand.

“Mother, you really have to settle—”

_“Of course. We are absolutely thrilled that the Home Secretary is awake and working toward making a full recovery. She has our full support.”_

Julia shoots her attention to the television. Prime Minister Catherine Sherwood stands before a bouquet of microphones just outside the Palace of Westminster. She stands with the confidence Julia has long admired, going back to Julia’s early days in Parliament when she was simply a backbencher.

“I will take it as a good sign she’s still referring to you as Home Secretary,” Frances says, focused intently on her knitting.

“It would be quite merciless of her to relieve me of my duty, but certainly not beyond her.”

“You don’t suppose she will ask you for your resignation, do you?”

The thought crosses Julia’s mind constantly. If she can’t conceal her illiteracy and convince everyone around her that she’s competent, Catherine, regardless of their close relationship, or maybe even because of it, might surely ask for her to step down.

_“Prime Minister! Have you visited the Home Secretary?”_

_“Not yet. I’d like to give her more time to re-acclimate to the world and hopefully enjoy Christmas with her family. I imagine I’ll visit her early in the new year.”_

_“And where will you be visiting her?_

“Don’t you do it,” Julia says to the television. “Don’t you dare say where.”

Catherine shakes head and wags a finger at the reporter. _“I won’t even praise you for that attempt.”_

“Oh, thank god.” Julia expresses all the air out of her lungs, releasing all her tension and nearly folding into herself like a cartoon.

Frances laughs as she shakes her head. “You wouldn’t have to be so concerned about privacy if we had you at a clinic abroad.”

“I can’t leave London, Mum. I have to stay close to the Home Office and Westminster.”

“Right,” Frances says. “The ‘Home Office and Westminster’.”

The teasing, in general, Julia can tolerate, but it’s the judgment in her mother’s tone that she rolls her eyes at. On the advice of Percy, Julia spoke with her mother about the time surrounding her father’s death and discovered that not only was she unaware of much, she also misremembered a lot of that period of her life. Of course Frances was her daughter’s strength and stay, but only because Julia was hers, and they had had each other. Grieving happened in moments of solitude, away from her daughter, and healing came with her.

“If I was confident in the security of my job,” Julia says, “then I would happily fly to anywhere in the tropics and recover there. Such isn’t the case and so I must stay in London.”

“Then you need to phone Da—”

“Mum, we’re not doing this again.”

Julia tosses the pen and legal pad at her feet and throws the blankets off her legs. She starts her climb out of bed, moving gingerly and taking all the time she needs. Frances has learned to not bother with helping unless explicitly asked, and the last time she was asked was that first day her daughter was awake, when she had returned from lunch to find Julia stuck simply sitting on the side of the bed. Since then, Julia only receives assistance from those of whom it is in their job description to help. If she even bothers requesting it.

Eventually, Julia finds herself on her feet. She stands confidently, though most of her weight rests on her left side. The right just feels weak and fragile despite being reinforced with titanium hardware. She stands tall and reaches for the ceiling. She nearly achieves that satisfying full body stretch, but, in addition to her burn scars going taut, she feels the beginnings of back spasms and recoils. She manages to fend them off, but the ease at which they’re prompted frustrates her.

“Are you all right?” Frances asks.

“I’m fine,” Julia sighs. “Just annoyed.”

“I suppose my tardiness doesn’t help,” a voice says from the open doorway.

Julia’s face brightens. “Ava!”

She quickly slides her arms into her crutches and rushes to greet her PPS. She plants the right crutch allowing her to hug Ava with her free arm. Ava’s eyes widen in surprise. She’s stunned, quite legitimately. Her own free arm is frozen by her side while the other still holds onto the trolley of file storage boxes she pulls behind her.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she laughs.

“No,” Julia says, still holding her. She gives her a squeeze before finally letting go and showing her in. “I am so relieved you still came.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Montague,” Ava says.

Frances returns her smile. “Nice to see you again, Ava.”

Before taking a seat in the armchair next to her bed, Julia’s attention is stolen by all the material Ava has brought with her. On the now parked trolley are three boxes stacked atop one another. The boxes are black and ominous looking; their lids secured to them with thick, sturdy buckles. Sitting on top of the tower is Ava’s bag, which she immediately begins rifling through.

“First thing’s first,” she says, her ginger curls falling and concealing her face as she nearly buries her head in her purse.

Julia puts her hand on Ava’s arm. “No, first thing’s first: How are you?”

She emerges from her bag surprised. “Me?”

“Yes,” Julia smiles. Though she is physically confronted with her work, some of the social items on her list suddenly shot to the top. “You’ve been all right? How’s Nicole?”

“Nicole’s great...” she says cautiously. “We’ll be spending Christmas with her family, and everything’s been fine. Aside from work, that is, which—”

“And your parents?”

“They’re well,” Ava nods. “When they’d learned what happened to you, my mother baked a half dozen loaves of plum bread and my father made you more sausage than is acceptable. I apologize.”

“Everything was delicious,” Frances says. “Obviously, the plum bread has since been consumed; the staff here thought it was lovely. There is still a healthy supply of the sausage, though,” she grins. “You’ll find that in the freezer when you get home.” She rises to her feet and secures her purse to her shoulder. “I will leave you two to your work.”

Julia walks her mother out, saying goodbye simply with a kiss on the cheek. She closes the door shut before heading back to bed. Instead of grabbing the covers to climb in, she fixes her bed, pulling the blanket as taut and flat as possible.

“Our work surface,” she says.

Ava dutifully nods and brings her purse over, placing it on the bed. She reaches in and retrieves a brand new BlackBerry.

“First thing’s first,” she starts again and hands over the phone.

Julia studies the mobile resting in her palm. It feels both familiar and foreign. It fits in her thin hand like before, but the weight of it feels heavier. She knows it’s because she’s become weaker. Her thumb glides over the buttons of the keyboard. Nothing happens on the dark screen until she applies enough pressure. For that, she finds herself incredibly relieved. In practicing with Lucy’s smartphone, her shaky control of her thumbs caused her to inadvertently press buttons or items on the screen neighboring her intended targets. The physical keyboard of the BlackBerry is sure to produce less errors.

“It’s all ready for you to hit the ground running. For security purposes, you required a new number, which has already been forwarded to all of your contacts.”

“Speaking of ‘security’…” Julia says.

“Yes.” Ava reaches into her purse and retrieves a notebook. She finds a desired page and refers to it. “I spoke with RaSP and, unfortunately, they can’t beef up your security detail at the moment. After the bombing, they reassessed and strengthened Specialist Protection for all senior politicians.”

“That includes me.”

“Right, but with how spread thin they already are, not even taking into account any further arrests in the corruption scandal, and because you have been...” Ava scans her notes. “Because you have been ‘safely contained’ here in hospital and will be at the clinic, they’ve prioritized the acting-Home Secretary.”

Julia’s eyes widen and her nostrils flare as she breathes sharply and deeply. “I am the _actual_ Home Secretary! As well as the fucking target of the bombing!”

“I know,” Ava says calmly, unaffected by her boss’s justified tantrum. “But in addition to being just weeks removed from the bombing and with the holidays approaching, JTAC are likely to move the threat level to Severe. MPS just don’t have the personnel.”

Julia sits with the information. Granted, the assessment is correct—Despite having been the target of multiple assassination attempts, she presently doesn’t exactly require security the way other ministers might. More troubling to Julia is that even if she did receive the additional protection officer or uniformed guard, it likely wouldn't provide the protection she earnestly desires.

She stares at the phone in her hand.

“Where would you like to start?” Ava asks as she begins moving the boxes from the trolley to the bed. “Command Papers,” she says as she places the first box. “Budget,” she says with the next. “And incident reports,” she says with the third.

“Does that include St. Matthew’s?”

Ava’s face goes somber as she nods.

“Before we get into all of that,” Julia says, looking at the dreadful black boxes, shaking her head and the thoughts of business out of her mind. “I’d like to meet with Tahir’s and PC Knowles’s families as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Ava writes down her boss’s request.

Julia takes a deep breath. “I’d also like to meet with fellow survivors.”

 _Fellow survivors_. What an uncomfortable and unsettling phrase.

“Would you like the media present?”

“Absolutely not,” Julia immediately replies.

“Of course,” Ava nods, continuing to write notes. “There are a few still here in hospital. Maybe we can visit with them before you leave tomorrow. As far as the others…I’m actually glad you brought this up,” she says. “Possibly one of the more time-sensitive matters we have to discuss doesn’t actually have to do with Westminster.

“A fund was swiftly established to assist those affected by the bombing. The Princess Royal, having such a connection with St. Matthew’s, being the Chancellor and all, wanted to do something for the college and the fund. So, her trust is hosting a gala to benefit them. Many of the survivors and their families will attend. Obviously, they are all hoping you will make an appearance.”

Ava reaches into her purse and produces a simple but thick white envelope. Julia takes it with both her hands, feeling and appreciating the weight of the stationery. She studies the wax seal, recognizing the logo of The Princess Royal’s Trust. She pries at it and produces that satisfyingly soft crack as the wax pops off the body of the envelope but remains wholly intact and attached to the flap. Inside is an elegant invitation on textured card stock. The golden calligraphy, though beautiful, is too elaborate for her eyes, but she somehow manages to make out the date of the event.

“New Year’s Eve,” she reads. “…Right.”

She is intrigued and mortified by the prospect.

A party genuinely sounds exciting. Julia actually looks forward to the big social events marked on her calendar. The fundraising dinners, the charity balls, the galas, the shows, etc. She happily accepts the invitation to the renowned Portrait Gala; though stuffy and often a drag, she does anticipate the Lord Mayor’s Banquet; and while she won’t admit it aloud, her favorite is the dazzling and prestigious Diplomatic Reception at Buckingham Palace. All of which she will miss or have already missed.

The mortifying aspect is in attending an extravagant New Year’s Eve event in her state. She presently looks gaunt, feels horrendous, and can’t take two unassisted steps. She can’t even imagine herself having enough energy to even be pleasant that late into the night.

“How would you like me to respond?” Ava asks.

Julia studies the invitation in her hand and tries to make out more of the details.

 _Black-tie._ Of course.

 _Grosvenor House._ Exuberant.

She swallows hard as she tucks the invitation back in its envelope and places it next to her beside her phone. “I need to have a think about it.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to meet with survivors before this big party,” she says. “The fund as well.” In making all these decisions, she suddenly wonders if she actually has any authority to do so. “Ava, what has the communication been like between Number 10 and the Home Office?”

“You mean in regards to you?”

Julia gives single solid nod.

“No one is saying much of anything to me,” Ava says.

“Well, how has Mike been in my role?” She desperately grasps for any clue that would indicate her future as Home Secretary.

“In a word? Soft,” Ava confidently says. “My sense is that Mr. Travis is very much just your placeholder.”

Julia subtly takes a deep, a relieving breath.

“Though, I do think you should get in touch with the PM as soon as.”

She stares off to the side but looks inwardly. “Yes, arrange that if you could, please, Ava.”

“Absolutely.” She jots down the note and then flips to a previous page in her notepad. Julia watches as her face suddenly reddens. “Erm… Another meeting that needs to be scheduled is with the IOPC.” Ava untucks her hair from behind her ear in a feeble attempt to hide her cheeks. “Ms. Thakur has inquired personally.”

“The director general herself,” Julia says jovially, though her insides tighten and her limbs go numb. The excitement of this powwow with her PPS has quickly worn off. “Right. Well, I suppose that takes precedent. Notify Ms. Thakur that I’m willing to meet with her at her earliest convenience. Only after meeting with her should I speak with the PM—I’d like to cooperate with the IOPC immediately and demonstrate to Number 10 that I am in no way hiding from anything or anyone.”

With her eyes glued to the notepad and then directly to her phone, Ava nods and pulls her shoulders back, inspired by the confidence her boss exudes. Even Julia herself is reminded of her own strength.

“Ava, I’m sorry,” she says. “I know we’ve hardly started, but do you mind if we take a break? I need to make a phonecall.”

* * *

“Well, hello.”

David rolls his eyes at the sass. “I’m sorry,” he says into the intercom. “Have you already started?”

“Your timing couldn’t be worse. We were _just_ about to dig in.”

“Well, let me up!” he laughs. In the silence that follows, he leans against the wall as he speaks into it. “Come on. All I’ve eaten today is leftover spaghetti bolognese.”

The door clicks and David rushes to escape the cold. Once inside, he continues to hurry. Food awaits him at the end of his sprint. He also doesn’t want to keep his friends waiting any longer than they already have. He scales up the stairs, two at a time, up three flights, holding the case of beer in front of him with a locked frame to make their journey is as smooth as possible. As he starts to ascend the third flight of stairs, dinner reaches his nose. He’s not sure what he’s about to feast on, but his mouth already waters and a giddy smile stretches across his face.

Louise, however, doesn’t share the same anticipation. She’s standing in her doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. “Mate, you are well tardy.” She glares at him but can’t help the slight smirk on her face. She’s still pleased to see her friend.

“Poor decision to try navigating public transport from the new place for the first time. I’m real sorry, Lou.”

“Why didn’t you just drive?” she asks.

“Because...” He forces her to take hold of the case of beer and pries it open. He pulls out a tall boy and cracks it open. “I’d already a few drinks at home, and I have a feeling it’d be unwise for me to drive home tonight even if I hadn't.” He lifts the beer to Louise and then takes a swig.

Her glare returns. No hint of a smile this time. “Yeah, I’m not letting it get to that. What the hell happened between Monday and now?”

“Let’s go inside, yeah?”

David follows Louise into her flat. His eyes go wide when he immediately finds the giant pan of paella at the center of the dining table. Again, his mouth floods with saliva as he ogles the mussels and massive prawns littering the golden rice. He can already taste and feel the crunch of the soccarat.

Reluctantly, he pulls himself away from the table and continues tailing Louise into her kitchen to find Erik. While she shoves his beverage offering into the fridge, her boyfriend pulls his attention away from the oven.

“David! You’re finally here.”

David offers his hand, prepared to give a hearty shake, but Erik throws his arms around him, giving him a bear hug so strong and tight that it might rival an embrace from an actual bear. Nearly a month of knowing Erik and David still has yet to learn to prepare himself for the Nordic man’s preferred method of greeting.

Noticing the beer already in David’s hand, Erik grabs his own bottle off the counter and taps it against the can.

“Skål.”

“Skål,” David nods.

They take a drink; Erik a quick sip and David a long gulp. It doesn’t register with Erik the way it does Louise. Instead, Erik studies David’s entire appearance. He physically keeps David from heading back to the dining table by grabbing his shoulders and holding him at arms’ length.

“Hold on,” he says, continuing his examination of him. His eyes narrow but no light goes off in his head. “Did you get a haircut? Something’s different.”

David simply shakes his head and shrugs.

Erik shrugs as well and pats him on the shoulders. “Well, you look different,” he says. “Good different.”

“I’m starting without you two!” Louise calls from the other room.

Though he hasn’t finished his first, David equips himself with a couple of beers and brings them with him to the table where Louise is already pulling a prawn from the pan and tries to fish out chunks of lobster. When she’s satisfied with her serving, she hands over the spoon to David. He can’t be bothered to be particular about the protein. He’s already pleased with whatever offerings the spoon will provide him. He heaps two hearty spoonfuls of paella onto his plate and starts digging in just as Louise had as soon as she finished serving herself.

David’s eyes roll to the back of his head the moment the rice touches his tongue. He knew Erik’s cooking was sure to be satisfying but it’s more comforting than David ever expected it to be, and he surely needed it to be.

Just as he thought he was getting the hang of sleep again, David struggled with restlessness. When he finally dozed off, he was disturbed by nightmares, finding himself trapped in them for far too long. Waking up was both welcomed and dreaded. On a terrible night’s sleep, he was faced with a full day of tasks. He needed to turn his barren house into a warm home. Now that he had the new place, and since it was larger than Vicky’s, Christmas plans were changed and he was to host Christmas. He spent all day cleaning from corner to corner. Boxes were hurriedly unpacked or stashed away in the garage. Furniture was hastily put together. The only break he allowed himself was to eat lunch, which was just Charlie’s meager leftovers from the night before.

“Good?” Erik asks.

“Brilliant,” he mumbles.

He doesn’t even swallow before shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Erik and Louise exchange glances and smirks like proud parents. They watch with great amusement as David derives so much pleasure from their meal.

“Lou told me your girlfriend woke up,” Erik says.

David freezes, his cheeks stuffed with paella. His eyes find Louise and narrow.

“I said, ‘Home Secretary’,” she says, holding up her hands and expressing innocence. She laughs and helps herself to one of David’s beers. “‘Girlfriend’ is all him, but I also never corrected him.” A smile on her face, she cheekily shrugs as she takes a drink.

Erik’s eyes dart between the two. “Is she not?”

David takes his time to chew and swallow down his mouthful. It still goes down uneasily, nearly painfully. He looks down at his plate. He still has so much of his serving left, but he’s suddenly uninterested.

“No,” he finally says. He finishes his first beer, washing down the rest of what is sure to be his last bite of dinner. “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

Louise’s eyes widen. “That’s what happened between then and now.”

David sighs heavily. He grabs his second beer, bringing it with him as he leans back into his chair. “We both decided we just needed some time.”

“Did you now?” Louise says.

“Maybe it wasn’t my idea, but it’s not a bad one.”

David opens his throat and nearly downs the whole fresh can. He gives it a wiggle to assess what remains and finishes it. While Erik and Louise watch, he leaves the table and disappears into the kitchen. They hear the fridge open.

“He’s been here ten minutes and he’s already had two beers,” Erik says. “Should we cut him off?”

“How?” Louise peers into the kitchen and watches David retrieve a number of beers. She winces. “No,” she decides with a sigh. “Just let him. Better here so we can keep an eye on him.”

Erik nods in agreement. The two of them press their lips closed as David returns with four tall boys, but he places one in front of each of them. He pops open his third of the night before he even sits back down. Like with the two before, his first sip is actually a number of hefty, thirst-quenching gulps.

“If you’re going to drown your sorrows,” Louise says, “you’re not going to do so quietly while we just watch. Talk to us.”

“No sorrows,” he lies. “Just a long week.” He looks at his can and studies the two empties on the table. “I just need one of these kinds of nights, you know? Don’t worry. These’ll be it for me.”

“We understand,” Erik says, “but regardless of how many, you’ll stay here tonight, ok?”

Already feeling a buzz and thinking about the hour-long trip back home, David sheepishly nods. Louise slaps him on shoulder.

“Chin up,” she says, demonstrating. “And, come on, let’s talk about it. It’s just time apart, yeah? Not the end?”

David lets his head bob with his heartbeat. He stares into his plate. Despite his healthy mouthfuls earlier, so much paella still remains. He hasn’t touched any of the prawns or the mussels. The plate actually still looks like a full serving.

He stares but no longer studies what’s there. He instead focuses on the warmth spreading across his face. The tingling of his cheeks. The watering of his eyes.

Time apart? Maybe the end? He told her he would wait for her. He will.

But would she come back to him? Was she going to forgive him for being so weak and idiotic? Not just in attempting suicide, but not even being truly brave enough to say, “I tried to kill myself, I was so unwell.”

Instead, he let her come to her own conclusions, possibly blaming herself for his choice.

David pours the rest of beer #3 into his mouth as he quickly reaches into his back pocket.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Louise says, grabbing hold of his arm before he can unlock his phone. “What are you doing?”

The long week definitely gave him the craving to console himself with a lager or two. The exhausting day increased the amount to three or four. It was the text that he received just hours ago that gave him the desire to imbibe as much of the case as Louise would allow.

The moment the notification popped on the screen, he registered that the text was from a number he did not know. He nearly dismissed it until he saw “Julia Montague” leap out at him. The wording of the text was concise and simple, formal and business-like. Definitely a mass text. Not written by her, but on behalf of her. From her new number.

He could easily talk to her again.

“It’s still early in the night,” Louise says. “Let’s let your buzz wear off and you can call her if that’s what you really want.”

David gnaws on his lip as he stares at his phone. The screen is still dark. His thumb hovers over the Home button. Ultimately, he places his phone face down on the table and replaces the empty can in his hand with a fresh one.

“Another time,” he says.

As he cracks open the can, his phone aggressively vibrates against the tabletop. He spills from being startled and nearly tosses the beer altogether in an effort to catch his phone from leaping off the table.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll clean up in a second.”

He dries his hand on his hoodie and then reaches for his phone. His eyes widen and his warm face burns hot the moment he sees the lit up screen.

“What’s wrong?”

David swallows hard. “It’s Julia.”

“Answer it.”

He clears his throat and accepts the call. “Hello?”

Louise and Erik watch with great intrigue, already enthralled by the one side of the conversation, but the tempered excitement in David’s eyes immediately disappears. His face drops.

“Right now?” he says. His eyes widen slightly as he brings them to Louise’s, causing her to mirror him. “Ok, I’ll come by. No, it's not too late at all. I’m actually just down the road. I can be there in about—”

Louise waves both her hands at him and holds them out, wondering what’s going on.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Louise suddenly realizes the call isn’t exactly personal.

“Could you hold on for a second? Apologies.” David pulls his phone away from his ear and mutes the call. “She needs to see me.”

“That’s good, right?” Erik smiles.

“He called her ‘ma’am’. It’s not great,” Louise says. She focuses back on David. “She still at Royal London? I’ll drive you. It’ll take fifteen minutes.”

David pulls his cheek back, giving a brief appreciative smirk before getting back on the phone. “Ma’am? Sorry about that. I can be there in fifteen. No, it isn’t a problem. See you then.”

He looks at the screen of his phone and watches as the seconds go by until Julia is the one to end the call. He watches her name disappear from his screen. In its place, his children appear and he smiles. After a moment, he gets to his feet. Louise does the same and starts preparing to leave.

“Hold on,” Erik warns. “Should you be driving? And should you be meeting Julia in your state?”

“I’m fine,” they say in unison.

“I just had one sip,” Louise says.

“I had three. Cans. Not sips. But you know that. Oh, I think I've actually had...” He looks at the ceiling, squinting his eyes and trying to do the math. “I think I’ve had five altogether? It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

“So five tall boys on only four mouthfuls of dinner?”

“They were tall mouthfuls,” he smirks, but he suddenly finds himself agreeing with Erik as he feels his surroundings shift and wave about despite standing completely still. He cautiously leans down and shovels a quarter of his plate into his mouth. He plucks a mussel out from its shell and stuffs it into the last remaining bit of space in his mouth. “Better?” he mumbles.

“Ready?” Louise asks. She looks to her boyfriend. “I’m sorry about this, babe. Just leave everything; I’ll clean up when I get back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Erik says. “Go deliver him to his girlfriend.” He gives David a cheeky grin and even a little wink.

David playfully narrows his eyes at him and then flashes a smile. “Thanks for dinner, babe. It was top.”

“Yeah...Fives beers was way more than enough,” Erik laughs. “I’ll pack this up for you to take home if you want to swing back here afterward.”

“Tak!” David shouts behind him as he chases after Louise.

“So what is this all about?” she asks when he reaches her side.

“She didn’t say,” he shrugs, “but it seems important. Maybe IOPC have met with her. I don’t know.”

Louise bobs her head at the likely scenario. “Hey, speaking of work—Have you thought about what we talked about?”

“I have,” David says.

After Dr. Nicholson had provided him with a positive outlook, he finally took Louise’s proposition into serious consideration. Being a protection officer is relatively passive work. Actively exercising the investigative and deductive parts of his brain was genuinely exciting and fulfilling. Yet, he simply feels suited to be a protection officer. It fits his demeanor and his skill set. Though he possesses all the skills that make for a great detective, he’s even better at the physical aspects of being a copper.

“If I can,” he starts to tell Louise, “I’m going to try to stay with Specialist Protection.”

“Ok,” she replies.

“It’s just that—”

Louise grabs his arm, stopping him. “You do whatever will make you happy, all right? I just want to be able to do what I can to help you get there.”

His lips twitch a few times before a smile finally emerges on his face. He’s not sure how he fell into Louise and Erik’s kindness, but he’s massively grateful. He won’t take it for granted.

The two of them climb into Louise’s car and buckle up. She starts the car and shifts it into Drive, but before pulling out, she looks to David.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m bricking it.”

Louise laughs. “How buzzed are you?”

“Very,” David says, blinking his eyes wide and trying to get them to focus. “Lou, I’m legitimately concerned the beer will settle and I’ll be drunk by the time we get there.”

“Dave, you are having a laugh. Please tell me you’re having a laugh.”

“I’m an idiot who just downed three tallboys in, like, fifteen minutes on very little food, and I had a shit night’s sleep, and I worked myself to the bone all day. So, no, I’m not having a laugh.”

“You are an idiot,” Louise laughs as she shifts the car back into Park.

“Whoa. What are you doing?”

“I am not bringing the Home Secretary her drunk, brooding boyfriend.”

David tosses his head back, rolling his eyes. “We can’t keep her waiting, Lou. Maybe I’m wrong—maybe I’ll be fine.”

She sighs heavily and reluctantly shifts the car into Drive. “If we get there and you're more drunk than you are now, then you ring her, tell her you’ll be late, and we wait it out.”

“I don’t seem that bad, do I?”

She glances at him briefly and then keeps her eyes on the road. “You seem fine. For the most part, you always do,” she says, recalling past drink dates with him. “I’m worried about your lowered inhibitions.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are happy drunks, sad drunks, angry drunks, easy drunks, and then there’s you. Mate, you are all over the place; you run the spectrum. Aren’t you worried what you’ll say to her?”

David chuckles to himself. The smile lingers on his face. “No,” he says.

Maybe it’s a bit fortuitous to be inebriated. Maybe lowered inhibitions are what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
>  _I don’t ever want to lose you. Not by choice, nor by fate._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I don’t ever want to lose you. Not by choice, nor by fate._
> 
> An inspired conversation.

Piles of papers litter Julia’s hospital room in organized chaos. All three file containers have been rummaged through, but they’ve hardly put a dent into any of them.

Ava started with the bills in their later stages in the House of Commons. Julia did her best to follow along, trying to read the white and green papers, but almost always, the text immediately melded together forming a large gray blur on the page. Instead, she’d ask Ava to elaborate, disguising her questions in a way that appeared Socratic, as if teaching and guiding Ava for her future in politics. And though she was equipped with a legal pad and a pen to take notes, Julia opted to type on her phone after feeling discouraged that her writing resembled that of her primary school days. Her eyes strained at the lit screen, forcing her to be concise as possible. She got by.

The whole evening has been the perfect primer for returning to work, instilling a desperately desired confidence in Julia.

“What exactly is the news about Yemen?” she asks, looking at the television screen and seeing the Commons Chamber footage of Matthew Chase once again.

Ava follows her boss’s eyes. “Yesterday, the Foreign Secretary updated the Commons on a UN-negotiated ceasefire.”

“What else did Chase say? Any changes in our involvement?”

“Presence remains clandestine,” Ava says. “Obviously that could change, but the focus is presently on monetary aid.”

“Right,” Julia says. She has to shake the thoughts from her head when she begins to feel the doom of another wartime conflict. “Let’s focus on domestic matters, then. What’s next?”

“Should we get into St. Matthew’s?” Ava cautiously asks.

She leans against the file container holding all of the incident reports. Julia helps herself to her feet and slowly walks over with her crutches. She sees Ava’s hand already partially gripped around the spine of one binder. One of four Julia notices. Whereas everything else in the crate are simply in loose folders or project protectors.

Julia sets aside a couple of files to make space on the bed. “Would you mind?” she says.

Ava heaves the thick binder out of the box and places it in front of Julia. “We could go through it together. Or I can leave you to read it on your own and answer your questions as they come up.”

“You’ve read all these?” she asks.

She eyes all the binders. Each one bulky and packed to capacity. When her eyes return to Ava, Ava nods.

Julia flips open the lid of the binder in front of her and is met with a table of contents. Immediately,

**PS David Budd statement, interview, and miscellaneous**

jumps out at her. She uses her finger to guide her eyes to the page numbers. It informs her instead that PS Budd has an entire section of his own. It simply says,

**PURPLE TAB**

She tilts her head to the side and spots it quite easily. She discovers the tab closer to the top and quickly notices that the thickness of the stack that follows it is substantial. It easily makes up more than half the binder and makes her doubt everything she knows about the terrorist attack.

Why the hell is there so much of a focus on Police Sergeant David Budd?

Dread fills her chest. She carefully approaches the tab, preparing herself as if by lifting it she will release a swarm of horrors. Nevertheless, she firmly pinches the thin stack that precedes the purple tab and readies herself to flip.

A knock on the door startles her. She releases a guttural gasp and reflexively throws the binder open to PS Budd’s section.

“Oh! For fuck’s sake!” she sighs as she leans heavily into her crutches for support.

“My apologies, ma’am,” PS Miller says, her head poking through the door. “Erm, PS Budd is here? Says you’re expecting him.”

Julia takes a deep breath, but now that David’s arrived, she’s sure she won’t be able to calm herself completely. Her heart pounds against her chest. The ripples reach her cheeks. They must undeniably be red.

“Yes, I called for him,” she says.

Julia stands tall and rigid but the moment she sees David come in, a shy smile on his face, her body relaxes. She battles against her wobbly legs, resisting the urge to simply lower herself to the loveseat behind her. Instead, she remains upright despite the ache in her hip and tightness of her back.

David feels his mouth stretch into smirk when he sees her. He can’t help it. He certainly can’t help it when a full smile appears because he’s overcome with pride in seeing her standing. Pride and maybe drunkenness.

He sees no expression on her face besides a firm determination. From the phone call, he assumed this wasn’t going to be a personal visit. The look of her all but confirms it.

He doesn’t care. He’s thrilled to be in her presence again.

“Will you be all right, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you,” Julia says to her PPO, “but, Angela, don’t change posts. Stay near. I’ll be calling for you in a moment.”

David’s smile disappears. His eyes twitch narrow in confusion. In his squint, he’s able to focus his vision and guides it over the room to study his surroundings. Large, black plastic containers sit on her bed, papers cover the rest of it as well as the couch behind her, and subserviently standing to the side is Julia’s PPS.

“Ms. Eddingham,” he nods, and he realizes as it’s happening that his nod is ridiculously exaggerated.

Ava gives him a polite smile. “It’s good to see you again, sergeant.”

“Yes,” Julia agrees. “Thank you for coming, Sergeant Budd.”

His heart sinks a bit and his axis legitimately shifts—his right knee buckles, but he immediately keeps bouncing it slightly in hopes of coming off as nervous? Impatient? Bored? He hasn’t a fucking clue, but it’s better than appearing drunk.

“Ava, would mind giving the sergeant and me a moment?”

“I’ll fetch us some tea.”

Julia waits silently until Ava closes the door behind her. She holds quietly for another moment, gathering her thoughts and composing herself, and deciding whether to sit or stand. She adjusts her stance and decides to continue standing.

“Thank you for coming, David.”

“You already said that,” he smiles.

He still stands just inside the door, only having moved aside to let Ava by. He takes a step forward but abruptly halts when he notices Julia shift. If she was more able-bodied, maybe she might have taken a step back. His heart sinks and he knows his distress appears on his face. He feels his eyebrows furrow. His eyes begin to sting. He somehow manages to keep them from getting glassy, but he has no way to know for sure. All he has to go by is that, beside the shiftiness of his vision, he can see relatively clearly.

Whether that’s actually true remains to be seen.

As soon as they arrived at the hospital, David and Louise put her power locks to the test in a showdown. It worked to her advantage that David’s reaction time was slowed by all the tallboys, but when he finally conceded the physical effort to escape her car, he appealed to her in earnestness.

“I can do this, Lou,” he said to her. “Let me prove you wrong.”

“How will you do that? And how the hell will I know?”

“You’re worried I’ll put my foot in it.”

Louise nodded.

“Well, I’ll go in there to just listen to what she has to say. If I conduct myself properly—proving you wrong—then I’ll be calling you to come pick me back up. In and out. No conflict.”

“And if you don’t?”

“If I cock it up—proving you right—then one of her POs will be calling you to come pick me back up.”

“Sounds about right,” Louise laughed, “but you don’t have go through that, Dave. Let’s go to the cafe, we’ll get a coffee, and wait this out.”

“I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

With Louise’s guard down, he had swiftly, in a beautifully coordinated effort with his arms, unlocked the door and shoved it open. Unfortunately, the rest of him didn’t move as fast. Louise grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back into the car.

“Cor blimey, Lou! Fuckin’ ‘ell, you’re strong!”

Louise rolled her eyes but further asserted her strength by holding him down into the seat. “The moment you feel your legs going,” she started, “or, if at any point you’re ‘blethering’ on and Julia can no longer understand you, or you so much as utter a single ‘ _wee_ ’, you abort. You hear me? Because if you’re right about me being right and POs are walking you out of the building, that gets back to Ledley, and now you’re fucking with your job.”

David nodded obediently. Louise released her grip and prodded him out of her car. He made a concerted effort to march into the hospital with confidence, and in a straight line.

Presently, his legs are still firmly under him like tree trunks. While Julia can’t step back, David does. He backtracks, dragging his feet as he slides back, the laziest and sloppiest attempt at a Moonwalk.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and his left hand immediately takes hold of his thumb.

After watching him with curiosity, Julia takes a deep breath and lifts her chin. “I’m quite embarrassed about asking to see you after having made such a fuss about needing time.”

Personal in subject but definitively professional in tone.

“I still need that time, David.”

“I understand,” he says, his head bobbing like a bobblehead.

“But I also need to feel safe,” Julia says, “and I just don’t feel that way. With Specialist Protection essentially guarding two Home Secretaries, they don’t have the means to bolster my security team.”

Though his cheeks grow warmer and he feels thousands of needle pricks in his hands and feet, David also senses himself sobering up.

“You’re the only one I trust,” Julia says confidently. “So I would like to hire you as my private security.”

He definitely isn’t sobering up. He’s possibly still going in the other direction, but even if he was sober, his heart still would’ve raced, his body still would’ve run hot, and his legs still would’ve weakened.

But he can’t abort.

“I’m sorry?” he says.

Julia’s eyes narrow as she tries to decipher what feels off about David. He had actually turned his head, aiming his ear in her direction.

He had come in, relaxed and at ease, but she expected him to perk up and present himself as “Sergeant Budd” the moment she addressed him as such, and she still waits for him to. She’s unsure if he will. She pushes past the expectation and carries on.

“I need you to supplement my current security team. I need you to be my PO again.”

As simple of a statement and request as it is, David still has difficulty wrapping his mind around it. His head continuously wiggles from left to right. “I, er…”

“I’m sorry if this impedes your recovery. If it does, _please_ , tell me to piss off.”

He snorts at the absurdity of ever doing so.

“I just don’t know what else to do.”

David snaps into solemnity as he effortlessly empathizes with her helplessness, feeling her hopelessness almost tangibly. He immediately knows his answer, taking into consideration nothing else but her.

“Ok,” he nods.

She tries to keep her composure, but her face lights up and he can actually see her gratitude, and her relief. Her shoulders lower. Slightly but noticeably.

“Thank you,” she says, but then no sooner does her face dim. “You know that means for as long as you’re in this role… You and I— I certainly have to set it aside. I can’t think about it. We can’t even go back to the way it was in the beginning.”

He scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“Could you please call in PS Miller?”

“Hold on a second, Julia,” he demands.

Her head tilts in surprise. She can honestly not believe he still hasn’t switched his manner. He has not uttered a single “ma’am.”

She doesn’t show how bothered she is by his lack of professionalism, and, as she’s come to surmise, his inebriety. She remains stern. She firms up her stance despite the needling pain in her back and intense soreness in every joint of both arms as she continues to prop herself up.

“PS Miller, please.”

It is not a request that she makes.

She’s surprised to see a genuine pout on his face. It was slight and brief, but there’s no mistaking what she saw, especially because she saw the discouragement in his eyes. Now, they’re filled with contempt as he keeps them glued to hers, forcing her to look away as he simply takes a couple of steps back and pulls the door open behind him.

“PS Miller,” he says loudly and firmly. His eyes still focused on Julia. “The Home Secretary would like a moment.”

Miller strides in and takes her position next to David, standing at attention. He studies her out of the corner of his eyes and evaluates Julia’s primary PPO on sight alone. He finally adjusts his posture, making an effort to grow an inch or two. She must be at least 6-feet tall barefoot, and though lean, David pities anyone who assumes they could challenge Miller. She exudes an intimidating and competent energy that he’s sure isn’t just a front; she could very likely transform that energy into brute strength. She possesses a confidence David would like on his team were he still the skipper of Julia’s security.

He needn’t worry about Julia under Miller’s watchful eye. Unfortunately, Julia doesn’t feel quite the same.

“Ma’am?”

“I am hiring Sergeant Buddy as a private protection officer. You two will work together in tandem,” she says, “but, ultimately, I am your responsibility, Sergeant Miller. Therefore, you are the authority.”

Again, she notices David’s pout.

“Ma’am, with all due respect,” Miller says, “I don’t think this is a good idea. I need to run this by my superior officer.”

“Are they honestly going to discourage me from trying to protect myself?”

“I can have a word with CS Ledley,” David offers.

Miller glares down at him. He refuses to meet her eyes, already feeling the heat from them. He subtly leans away from her, but in doing so, his right leg buckles once again. He quickly tries to recover by just blatantly shifting away from Miller. A quick glance out of the corner of his eyes and he can see her eyes widen in confusion. Then horror. Then fury. David shrinks the inch he tried to grow and swallows the lump in his throat as he remains focused on Julia.

“Thank you, Sergeant Budd,” she says, deciding to ignore his drunkardly stumble. “Right now I’m thinking Sergeant Budd will work primarily on weekends when I’ve just a PPO and the DPG to rely on.”

“Ma’am,” Miller continues to object. She finally tears her eyes off of David. “I implore you to reconsider. Given the, er...chatter, it would be unwise for PS Budd to be seen by your side.”

Julia nearly expresses the offense she takes at the idea that having David beside her is something to be embarrassed or ashamed of. She presses her lips closed tight as she takes a deep breath and carefully selects her words.

“Sergeant Miller, thank you for your concern, but you are my protection officer, not my PR aide. Now I am feeling nervous and unsafe and Specialist Protection cannot provide me with more CPOs, so I am doing it myself.”

“Ma’am,” Miller says with an apologetic tone. She gives a single nod, leaving her eyes to rest on the ground.

“Additionally, Angela, I advise you to ignore the ‘chatter.’ Regardless of what you have already heard and seen, Sergeant Budd is simply my former protection officer.”

 _Simply_.

His left hand still in his pocket, still holding his thumb, David squeezes. He feels a coolness when the air evaporates the emerging sweat on his face, but his face burns so hot, the coolness is extremely short-lived. He closes his eyes and locks his knees.

_One._

_Two._

Though he thinks he stands firm, Julia watches as he slightly sways back and forth. She rolls her eyes and continues. “Sergeant Budd,” she says.

She waits for his attention. He “wakes” looking very much like he’s just woken up for the day. He blinks to focus his eyes. She notices the effort he puts into looking alert. She’d honestly find him amusing if it were just the two of them, and if she truly allowed him back in.

“You’ll start tomorrow,” she says. “We should arrive at St. Luke’s Clinic around mid-day. I expect to see you already there. I'll leave it to the two of you to figure out how to work together. Any other questions or objections?”

“No, ma’am,” Miller answers, her olive skin burning red.

David just shakes his head and the two of them do an about-face and head for the door. He immediately regrets spinning quickly. He falls forward but quickly catches himself with the door handle and holds himself up. The stroke of luck gives him a boost of confidence. He gallantly pulls the door open for his new superior and gestures for her to go through. He moves to follow her.

Until he reconsiders.

“I just need another minute with her,” he says.

Miller glowers at him. “Fat chance,” she says through clenched teeth. “You’re drunk.”

“Am not.”

Both David and Miller cringe.

“Sergeant Budd, remove yourself from the room before I do it for you.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” he scoffs. “I’ll smuggle her out the window?”

Miller leans back into the room and legitimately examines the windows.

“I was joking.”

“Well, I don’t know you!” she shouts in a whisper. “I only know what I’ve heard.”

David perks up. Is she talking in regards to “gross misconduct”? Or does she think he’s dangerous? He feels a shroud of humility drape over him.

“Is there a problem?”

Both of them look over David’s shoulder at Julia glaring at them.

“No, ma’am,” Miller says.

He can tell she doesn’t want to be chided by their boss yet again. Her eyes find David’s for a moment before she takes a step back, turns away from the door, and resumes her post in the corridor.

David glances back over his shoulder and sees that Julia is solely focused on painstakingly descending onto the couch. Her crutches wobble from all the pressure she places on them. David quietly closes the door, careful not to distract her. It is only when she settles into her seat that she finally sees that David remains. She immediately moves to rise back to her feet.

He holds up his hand. “Stop,” he says softly, and annoyed. “You don’t have to do that.”

She sits back down, but not because he gives her permission. Standing was exhausting. Compounded by the energy it took to put on a professional front. Julia’s unsure she could even return to and remain on her feet if she tried.

“I need to talk to you,” David says.

Julia studies him with skepticism, an eyebrow raised. “You’re sure? Is that a good idea?” she says, a slightly condescending smirk on her face.

“Ok, you can’t do that,” he says. “You can’t say, ‘things can’t go back to the way they were,’ and then grin at me like that.”

She nods in concession and extinguishes the smirk. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want the smile to go away,” he whines, rolling his eyes and flapping his arms and dropping them against his hips in exasperation. “It’s what you said that needs to fuck off.”

“David, how much have you had?”

“Five beers,” he immediately says, but willfully omits the serving size.

“Except for the occasional stumble and your surly but, admittedly, amusing candor, you’re actually handling yourself quite well.”

He modestly shrugs, but his verbal response is nothing to be proud of. “I think I drink too much.”

Suddenly, Julia no longer finds his frankness entertaining. “What is it you needed to talk to me about? If this is about the details,” she says, “I’ll match your MPS pay.”

“No,” he scoffs. “I don’t want to talk about the money. That’s not what I— I just—” He’s frustrated by his flustering. He’s flustered by his frustration. The situation is too bizarre for him to grasp. “Look, you don’t have to pay me.”

Julia prefaces her words with a stare. “Yes, I do,” she says in the firmest of ways. “This relationship is strictly professional and legitimate.”

David’s eyebrows dance. “Sure it is.”

She glares at him in disbelief and disgust. “What is your problem?”

“You!” he blurts out. He shakes his head, lowering it with every turn. “Or, at least, the absence of you.”

Julia shifts nervously in her seat, unsure what to do, how to react.

“Nevermind,” he frowns. “Look, maybe Miller is right—Keeping me around isn’t a good idea.” He looks Julia in the eyes and shrugs. “I mean, you already know that—you’ve only already gone and done a runner. So to speak.”

He can’t stop the words from escaping his mouth. He can’t stop his eyes from glancing at her crutches. It’s far too late but he still clamps his jaws shut and throws his head back to look up at the ceiling, unable to face the hurt he’s inflicted on Julia, to see him worsen the guilt and insecurity she already carries.

Louise is wrong. His inhibitions aren’t lowered. He has no inhibitions at all.

He’s made himself sick. Avoiding her eyes, he bends over, putting his hands on his knees, and breathes deep. “I am _so_ sorry,” he says into the ground. His frustration and internal fight to suppress his sick makes his eyes water.

Julia watches him struggle. He continuously drags his palms across his eyes to dry them. He tries his best to compose himself but it’s a futile effort. He’s a mess.

“You should go,” she says.

“Please. There’s something I need you to know.”

He resorts to the inside of his hoodie collar to dry his eyes. He blinks repeatedly to stave off any emerging tears. When he feels he has a hold of himself, he finally looks at Julia. She now sits unaffected, simply waiting for him to say his piece.

“I just need to tell you this while I have the courage. Or this false courage. Though, I guess it’s courage regardless.”

“Spit it out, David.”

He watches as she tries to hold onto the remains of her patience. He composes himself, as best as an inebriated man can, and gives her an appreciative smirk, extremely grateful that she doesn’t summon PS Miller.

“Right,” he says. “Well, what I wanted to tell you...” He takes a healthy deep breath and stands firmly; his base fixed, his spine straight, his shoulders relaxed but pulled back. “What I need you to know is that when I believed that I lost you, I did want to end it all.”

Julia manages to suppress a shudder but still shifts uncomfortably.

“BUT,” he says, “it wasn’t because I thought I couldn’t live without you, because I can—” He purses his lips as he shakes his head. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“I understand. Go on.”

He nods his thanks. “There were a number of reasons why I felt like I couldn’t go on living.”

He swallows the lump in his throat, but despite his reluctance, now he stands confidently, the way Julia has been expecting him to. She softens, allowing herself, and genuinely wanting, to be completely open and patient to all David has to say.

“Someday,” he says, “I would like to be able to talk to you about it. When I’m ready, and if you’re willing.”

“I will be willing,” Julia says quickly and emphasizing it with a nod.

Lowered inhibitions prevents him from controlling his grin; David can feel how bright his own smile is. He reminds himself of his desire to prove Louise wrong and suppresses his smile but requires his palm to physically erase it.

“Just to be clear,” he then continues, “when I said that I can live without you, what I meant was I do have other things going on—it’s not all about you.”

David slaps his face with the entirety of his hand and shakes his head. He feels the heat of his face in his palm and the sweat of his palm now on his face.

Julia laughs; a scoff of offense and a soft cackle of genuine amusement. She covers her smile with her fingers and sincerely tries to hide her delight in watching him drunkenly flounder. She doubts she succeeds.

“Julia, I _really_ didn’t mean that.”

She shakes head head and shrugs. “You’re not wrong. You’re not wrong about any of it.”

“How deep of a hole have I dug myself?”

“Not as deep as you think.”

“I just meant—”

“Know when to quit,” Julia warns, her cheeks burning from the strain of trying to hide her smile.

David sees her struggle and can’t keep his own grin from emerging, but he diminishes it. “No, this I need to say—You are important to me.” Maybe momentary, but he suddenly feels sober. “Saying I have other things going on as if you’re not...” He shakes his head. “I don’t want you believing that you’re not. You are. Very much so.”

Though unbelievably validating and satisfying to hear him say it, she never thought the alternative. “I know,” she tells him. “Admittedly, I do feel that I am in some way responsible for having pushed you to make that…hard choice, but I know full well that—despite how important I like to feel,” she says with a self-deprecating smirk, “it wasn’t just about me. You’ve lived through a lot, David. You were unwell.”

He notices the past tense. Flattery makes his cheeks burn beyond the warmth of the beer. He’s grateful that she believes in him, but he’s not quite well. Not yet. At least now he can honestly see himself getting there.

“It did worry me that my ‘death’ troubled you that much,” Julia carries on, “but I am learning how easy it can be to lose control when you—” She keeps from making an assumption on his behalf and an admission on hers. “When you really care about someone,” she says instead.

Despite what Percy discussed with her, and even though David allows himself to be vulnerable with her, Julia still preserves herself.

She sighs heavily, feigning exhaustion. “I’ve still a lot of work to do and Ava should be back any moment.”

David nods but he makes a lame attempt to turn away and leave. “What are your reservations, Julia?” he says. The sobriety moments ago was definitely temporary, but this is when the lowered inhibitions work in his favor. He even boldly steps toward her; she crosses her arms. “You’re the one who committed to us first.”

Her eyes widen at the accusatory tone in his voice, but she has no right to react with defense. “I just need time,” she says calmly.

“Ok,” David nods. He takes another step forward; she adjusts and crosses her legs, wincing. “Why exactly?”

She hears the genuine curiosity and considers telling him the truth, but she thinks better of it. To tell him, “ _I don’t ever want to lose you. Not by choice, nor by fate_ ,” she’s sure it would only be a burden to him at this moment.

During her silence, David completes his approach to her. He still keeps his distance and stops at the end of the loveseat. She doesn’t express any objection as the length of the couch separates them. He crouches and hides behind the armrest, his arms crossed on it and his chin on his wrists. He feels more stable braced against the couch. Legitimately a little less drunk. Definitely more at ease to be closer to her.

Julia softens as they simply look at each other. This could be the two of them at home, after a fight, with David cautiously approaching with an appeal for forgiveness. Instead, he’s presently investigating why they aren’t even together.

“Why do you feel you need time?”

“Things change,” she simply says.

“Do they?”

“Yes!” she scoffs at him. “We were blown up. _You_ tried to kill yourself!” The resentment in her voice is clear, and she doesn’t try to course-correct—she’s angry. “So, _please_ ,” she says with a heavy blanket of sarcasm, “forgive me for needing time to steel myself.”

David’s unsure of the expression on his face but it must be as ridiculous as he thinks her statement is. “Steel yourself? You already are steel. Titanium actually,” he smirks.

And just like that, with one cheesy quip, her anger vanishes. “If only I actually was,” she says woefully, “because I really don’t like that I don’t feel safe without you. No offense.”

The way his chin rests on the back of his wrists, it appears as though David pouts with his bottom lip jutting out, but he doesn’t actually take offense. He shakes his head dismissing her sentiment and then continuously shakes his head, because the thought of him taking his life immediately infests his mind and thus the devastation he would have left on those that depend on him the most; Ella and Charlie. His eyes water thinking about the safety he would have deprived them of by taking their father away. He thinks of Julia and how he would be taking away her sense of security as well if he suddenly disappeared.

He thinks of her wanting to steel herself. One only steels oneself for the unpleasant.

He tucks his protruding bottom lip into his mouth and lightly chews on it as he takes a moment to contain his himself.

“Are you afraid I’ll try it again?” he says nervously. “Because I won’t. I won’t do that to Ella and Charlie. I won’t do that to you.”

“I believe you,” she immediately assures him.

He barely starts to push himself up when she quickly unfolds her arms and readies to snatch her crutches and leap off the couch.

“Why do you keep doing that? Retreating?” David asks. “I know I’m drunk, but I am awake enough—I’m not going to hurt you.”

Julia’s eyes widen in shock and devastation. Her shoulders drop along with her heart. She quickly lunges forward, completely ignoring the piercing pain in her hip and back, and grabs his arm. The muscles of his forearm tighten under her firm grip as he squeezes his own fist, wishing he had moved fast enough to grab her hand.

She stares into his eyes, making sure he looks in hers. “I know that.” She lets her words settle with him before rolling her eyes at herself. “It’s not you. It’s me,” she says with a laugh as she leans back into her corner of the loveseat. “It’s very much me.”

“What’s the supposed to mean?” He grabs hold of his arm where her hand was; he can’t match her touch.

Julia looks back into his eyes. Instantly, she is lost in the blue of them. So clear. They pierce through the brightness of the room. Magnified by their alcohol-induced sheen. A smile of pure content curls onto her face.

“It would be so easy to just fall into you,” she sighs. “Fall into your safety and comfort.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You won’t ever know what it’s like to be me, or who I used to be,” she says. “To have lost my father; for it to be just my mother and me. To have been with Roger. To have reemerged from the rubble of that relationship. To be a woman in my position. To have fiercely been my own person.” She shakes her head, wistfully trying to remember and feel exactly like who she was. “The explosion changed us, David. I can see it. You say you’re not bold and brave, but you’ve already shown me that you are. Many times over this week. Myself, on the other hand.”

“None of what you are, what _you_ think you _were_ , is lost.”

“It feels that way.”

He frowns not because his chin is pushed up by resting it on his arms, but rather because he is completely sympathetic to her plight. He knows exactly what it’s like to feel as though one has lost who they are.

David grimaces as the muscles in his legs seize up and his knees painfully strain. It hurts too much to try to extend them and stand back up. He willingly drops to his bottom and drags himself over to the bed, leaning back against it. He sits like a ragdoll; legs outstretched, slouched and unanimated, but he is relaxed and comfortable.

“It feels that way,” he says, “but you _haven’t_ lost yourself, Julia. Not yet, anyway.”

“Are you saying I will?”

He squints his eyes as he stares out the window, but he isn’t studying how the nearly full moon stunningly illuminates the buildings of the old Royal London Hospital just across the way. Instead, he searches for the words floating around in his memory.

“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily,” he says. “Not to dare is to lose oneself.”

Julia tries to downturn the impressed grin on her face. “You just quoted Kierkegaard.”

“Aye,” David nods with a smile. “I did.”

“Drunk You is philosophical?”

He shrugs modestly. “But, as you know, he’s also a prat.”

He makes the short crawl across to the couch and stays sitting on the floor but drapes himself on the empty seat next to Julia. He leans his head on his arm and stares at his hand resting at the crevice of the couch cushions. She grabs her crutch, but instead of sliding her arm inside of it to get up and retreat, she sets it aside, clearing the way between her and David. She places her hand on her side of the canyon. Neither of them bridge the divide.

“You know,” Julia says, “even though he was deeply in love with his fiancée, Kierkegaard broke off their engagement because he had reservations about being a good partner. _But_ without the breakup and the heartache, he isn’t the Kierkegaard we know.”

“He also likely died a virgin. So...” He playfully tilts his head from side to side. “Do you want to do as he said? Or do as he did?”

Julia shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but the smirk on her face belies her annoyance.

“But seriously,” David says, picking his head up and sitting upright, “are you worried you won’t be a good partner?”

“There’s just no way I can be right now, and I can make that same argument for you,” she says.

He stiffens his upper lip and raises his chin. “You are not an injured bird and neither am I.”

In hearing him make that claim, Julia realizes that maybe they actually are. She looks at him. Five beers in. She looks at herself. Confined to the couch. Lacking the energy to even stand.

“David, I’m not in the position to be any support to you, let alone be your partner.”

He emphatically shakes his head. “You’re wrong. I will have you as you are, whatever the condition.”

Julia scoffs, amused at the thought of all sorts of states for which he wouldn’t mind having her, but she shakes her head as well. “Maybe you’re content with that, but I’m not. You deserve better. I can be better.”

He’s stunned that she believes any of that to be true. One, that he deserves a particular caliber; something he’s not even sure he deserves. Two, that she doesn’t meet whatever that standard is.

“Julia,” he grins. “You are more than enough, and I know that to be true, I determine it to be true because I—”

“Stop,” she says, crossing the divide and placing her hand on his. She can feel what he's about to say. “Don’t say it. You might not remember it in the morning.”

He keeps smiling. “It’s not something I could forget.”

She curls her fingers around his hand and gives it a shake. “Then save it for another time, because it’ll be wasted now—There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But there is.”

Julia shakes her head. “You being my PO, and nothing more, is the only sensible way to bring you back into my life right now. I’ll be meeting with the Director General of the IOPC soon, and if we do things your way—”

“Maybe they won’t find out.”

“This we don’t dare with,” she quips. “You’re risking your job and mine, and we decided that both are worth saving, right?”

He nods obediently.

He pulls his hand from hers and rubs his fading eyes. At this point, he feels more sober than buzzed but the drowsiness of drinking has settled in. The corner of Julia’s mouth lifts as she watches his blinks slow. She studies him as he rests his eyes. He can’t be very comfortable but he looks at peace. She reaches forward and combs away the hair from his forehead. Though they’re closed, she can see his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Go home, David. Get some sleep. You’ve got work tomorrow,” she smiles. “I don’t think your new superior will be pleased to see you hungover.”

“It’s ok. I know the boss,” he mumbles in his half slumber.

“How are you getting home?”

David opens his eyes and yawns into his arm. “Louise Rayburn. I was having dinner with her and her boyfriend at theirs when you called. They live just up the road.”

Julia’s eyebrows lift. “Detective Rayburn?”

“Yeah, I know, but we’re mates now. Her and her mister look after me.”

“I am so glad to hear that,” she says. “I wish I was able to do the same for you.”

David shakes his head as he gets to his feet. “You don’t have to look after me. I just want you to be with me," he says, the last bit of buzz making him cheekily shrug. “But you need time and I have to respect that and be patient. Besides, it looks like time might serve us well, and also, you deserve better, too. I can do that.”

Julia hopes with all hope that he’ll remember everything tomorrow. “Thank you, David.”

He stands tall, his legs firmly planted, and gives a single nod.

“Ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
>  _She dreads addressing the media. But the cold perks her up and she remembers that she’s excited to finally leave the hospital. She’s excited to really start rehabbing. She's excited to have David back in her life._


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David reports for duty.

David was out the moment his face hit Louise’s couch. Had he given himself another hour, he’d probably have been fine to make it home on his own, but he was mentally and emotionally spent, and happily so.

If only the exhaustion had put him into a deep slumber. Drinking’s great for knocking one out, but it makes for a shit night’s sleep. He’s sure he must’ve woken up every hour. At least the nightmares never came.

Instead, as David hovers between consciousness and sleep, he replays the night before. He surprisingly wasn’t drunk enough to not remember. For that, he is grateful. In fact, he’s quite pleased with how the night went. He’s only regretful that his courage had come from multiple cans of beer, but his main concern lies in whether Julia doesn’t just dismiss the conversation as the whinging of a brooding drunken sap.

A firm but considerate jab into his shoulder wakes him. His eyes easily open and he sees his already towering friend standing above him with a bright smile on his face.

“Morning,” Erik says. “This is your nine AM wake-up call.”

David suddenly remembers requesting one like an asshole as he fell to the sofa. “I am so sorry,” he says. He winces as he sits up, slowed by the pain and that repulsive, heavy yet impalpable layer of residual drunkenness.

“You’re fine,” Erik says, taking a seat next to him. “Here, a remedy for you.” He presents David with a breakfast butty, a large glass of water, and a couple of ibuprofen. “I have to head into the restaurant in a few minutes, but you’re free to stay as long as you’d like.”

“Cheers, but I have to get going.”

“You have plans? The kids? I thought Vicky had them for the weekend.”

It’s telling that it comes as a surprise to Erik that David actually has something to do in the day.

“She does, but no, I have to get going because I’m starting a new job today.”

“Ah, so Louise wasn’t joking,” Erik says. “After you guys got back last night, she said you were working for the Home Secretary again, and I said, ‘HURRAH!’” He shakes his fists in jubilation, presumably reenacting his reaction from the night before. “But Lou didn’t feel the same way. We didn’t talk about it more, so why isn’t Lou happy about it?”

“Probably a lot of reasons. Most of which—probably _all_ of which—she isn’t wrong about.”

Erik’s eyebrows furrow deep with concern. “So you know what you’re getting into, then.”

“Not really. No.”

David devours the butty, washing it down along with the pain relievers with the entire glass of water. It all sits heavy in his stomach, but better that than it not settling at all.

He sets off for home with last night’s leftovers packed away and in hand. The commute home is to take an hour. He has to make efficient use of his time. David has just a few hours to get home, wash up and change, head back north into the city, meet with the head of security at St. Luke’s (who he still needed to ring), get a lay of the facility, and prepare himself for Julia’s arrival. It’s a bit hectic. Intimidating, even, but David is reveling in it all.

First, he texts Dr. Nicholson, canceling his regular weekly appointment.

“Won’t be showing up. Apologies. Found a purpose,” he types into his phone. “Will call later to discuss.”

Then a text from Ms. Eddingham notifying him of Julia’s ETA to St. Luke’s prompts him to make the call to Ledley. After devoting a few minutes to small talk and catching up, David dives right into the pressing matter. He can feel through the phone that his boss is extremely displeased.

“You’re joking,” Ledley says.

“Sir, I understand your concern.”

Ledley sighs heavily into the phone. “I don’t think you do. DPS are aggressively manning a spotlight all over MPS. There’s no way this is getting by them. What am I supposed to say to them?”

“You can tell them everything will be above board. It’s a ‘strictly professional’ relationship.” He grips his thumb, remembering Julia’s phrasing, but it was his response to her that makes him squeeze hard. _Sure it is_ , he vividly recalls himself saying. He clenches his fist tighter.

“Is that all?”

David can tell Ledley is alluding to their conversation from earlier in the week. “Yes,” he reluctantly admits. “She is simply my former principal and current client, I suppose. Nothing more.” He pulls the phone away from his mouth unable to stop a sigh.

“This isn’t a good idea, sergeant.”

“You’re probably right,” David agrees, “but PS Miller is already aware of the situation and the principal made clear that Miller is my superior. I’m just another body. This might be a great opportunity to show that I can return to duty, sir.”

“Or it’s a great opportunity to lead to your dismissal.”

David can’t linger on the ominous warning. He quickly wraps up the conversation after Ledley concedes, unable to argue against more manpower especially given that the holidays are nearing, resulting in the possibility of a heightened threat level. As David disembarks the train, the next call he makes is to St. Luke’s, but having been briefed by the Home Office, they’re already waiting for him to arrive at his earliest convenience.

He assumed he’d be on the phone for the last leg of his journey, but since he no longer is, David realizes he’d sooner get home running than waiting for and riding the bus. It might look bizarre to the random onlooker for a man to be in a steady but uncomfortable, distressing jog wearing jeans and a proper winter jacket as he holds a Tupperware of bright golden paella, and for a moment, as his momentum increases from the downslope of his street, he wonders if maybe things are, in fact, a little too hectic for him.

But he has too many reasons to not bail from the situation. One great reason.

He hurries inside his home and turns into the kitchen. He tosses his haul from last night into the fridge where it comes to a rest on a shelf all to its own. He was supposed to do his shopping today. When he continues his jog out of the kitchen, he has to juke and serpentine around the boxes of Christmas decorations that he no longer knows when he’ll have time to put up.

It appears his life is on hold again, but this time, he’s not terribly upset about it. Though, he is more stressed. But what person doesn’t stress even slightly around the holidays?

It oddly feels comforting. Life may be on hold but he feels like he’s living again.

He jumps into the shower before the water has a chance to warm and he’s out only a few minutes after it does. He pops into his bedroom to turn on his television and does a double take when he recognizes the building behind BBC News’s Ben Wright.

_“Good morning from Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel where the Home Secretary, Julia Montague, will be addressing the media just before noon. The Home Secretary is set to be discharged from hospital seven weeks after surviving the terrorist attack at St. Matthew’s College back on the fourth of November."_

A wider shot of the hospital shows the sheer number of media waiting for the first glimpse of the Home Secretary in a month and a half. Dozens of news agencies, domestic and international, are present and represented by at least one camera affixed to a tripod, a camera-person, and a trembling, shivering or bobbing reporter. The handfuls of still photographers roam about, trying to find the best light and angle.

Then BBC shows footage of Julia’s speech at St. Matthew’s. David mutes the television and quickly retreats back into the bathroom.

He swipes away the condensation on the mirror and gives himself a good look over. The shower helped him look less like a man resurrected but the dark circles remain. At least his eyes look alert. He can’t remember the last time he saw that there was life in them.

He grabs hold of his jaw and rubs over every inch of his beard. It’s time for it to go. Before he can think about it too much, he grabs his beard trimmer, closes his eyes, and starts hacking at it. The snipping of hundreds of hairs tickles his eardrums. He opens his eyes to examine the length. Now, he can completely erase his beard with his electric razor. This, he watches.

The beard had kept him warm against the chilling winds, but it wasn’t that kind of forethought that David had in mind when growing it. His beard’s existence was simply due to grooming negligence, and now he's finally addressing it. As more of his face is cleared, David finds his breaths to be more fulfilling. One last complete pass and the absence of any audible snipping tells him the job is complete.

There is less fat in his cheeks. The bones are a little more pronounced. His jaw line is sharper.

He is a marginal version of the man he was.

Back in his bedroom, _BBC Newsroom Live_ airs on the television. He unmutes it to let the latest on the drone disruption at Gatwick Airport play in the background. JTAC have raised the threat level to SUBSTANTIAL.

He stands in front of his closet. Boxes on the floor of it still hold most of his wardrobe. Just his dry-cleaned clothing hangs on the rack. As well as a spare ballistics vest. Like his dry-cleaning, the body armor is draped in plastic. He’s never had to use it, never having had to jump into action for work right from home, the reason for which he and other POs possess a spare ballistics vest.

He won’t have a firearm nor any other type of weapon. He’ll have to rely on his combat training to protect the principal as well as himself. At least he has the body armor.

He pulls it from the closet and off its hanger. He lets it hang from his fingers, bouncing it a few times, refamiliarizing himself with its weight. It isn’t terribly heavy but it will feel as though it gets heavier as the day wears on. He only recently started working out again but he’s nowhere near the physical fitness he used to be.

He dreads what a day in the vest will do to him.

He fears what the ballistics vest will remind him of.

The last vest he wore was intended to do the opposite of protect him.

David reluctantly unlatches the Velcro. He takes a deep breath and mentally hypes himself up. He has a few false starts, stopping just as he’s about to swing his arms.

“Come on, David!”

He lets out a guttural growl and finally throws the vest on. He swiftly swings it over his head and lets it drops heavily onto his shoulders. It hugs him immediately. He looks straight up at the ceiling as he latches himself in.

His heart begins to race. He can already feel the sweat surfacing on his forehead. His breaths shorten; in and out through his mouth rapidly, but it’s as if he isn’t taking in any air at all.

He can’t calm himself.

The vest tightens around his entire torso. His chest no longer expands. He looks down and sees the wires and the row of tightly packed C4.

He quickly reaches for the Velcro, ripping it open. He shudders the vest loose and ducks out of it completely, letting it simply drop off of him and to the floor when he’s free. He heaves in deep breaths. He forces himself to stand tall with his hands on top of his head to fill his lungs to capacity.

He retches. Thankfully, nothing comes up.

As he bends down to retrieve the armor and try again, he retches a second time, and gets sick on the floor and all over the vest.

* * *

Julia examines herself in the mirror. Just as she suspected, her eyes are red and swollen.

She had done well to keep it together as she met with the two other survivors still in hospital. She sat with each of them for some time. Their chats started somber but grew to be hopeful and then genuinely delightful. She was so pleased to learn that Mira’s release is imminent, and though James must remain in hospital for the foreseeable future, he’s expected to be well enough to attend the New Year’s Eve gala.

It wasn’t until she was heading back to her own room that the weight of it all began to settle in, especially the guilt of being among the living. The moment the doors to the elevators closed, the tears flowed. Fast and unceasingly. Frances stood into her daughter, bracing Julia between herself and the corner of the elevator. PS Miller pulled the emergency stop and for ten minutes they allowed Julia to feel.

She composed herself well enough to restart the elevator and leave the privacy of it. She no longer sobbed, but the tears continued spilling down her face. She was able to dam them up when she looked out a corridor window and saw the cluster of media waiting outside. By the time she returned to her room, she had completely regained her composure. Her face tells a different story.

“Here you go, ma’am. For your eyes,” Ava says, offering Julia two small ice packs. “We’ve still plenty of time for you to look camera ready.”

Julia finishes climbing into bed. She lies back and places the ice on her eyes. She welcomes the shock of the cold. She’s exhausted from the emotional morning. She dreads addressing the media. But the cold perks her up and she remembers that she’s excited to finally leave the hospital. She’s excited to really start rehabbing. She excited to have David back in her life.

She thinks of their conversation the night before and wonders how much of it he remembers now. She supposes the important thing is that it happened. She won’t mind reminding him of the things he said, especially the inadvertent insults—she’s thrilled to have those in her back pocket.

“What are you smiling about?” Frances says.

Julia puckers her lips to extinguish her grin. “Nothing,” she says. She peels away the ice packs. “How are they? Better?”

Both Frances and Ava genuinely evaluate her face. After a moment, they nod, but their pause gives Julia no confidence.

“Maybe a shower will help,” Frances suggests. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

Julia reluctantly nods. She and Antony had gone through a number of run-throughs of maneuvering in and out of the shower, but she has yet to put any of it into practice. It’s really quite simple, and she’s moving nearly effortlessly, if not for the pain. However, it’s not the physicality of the shower that she’s concerned about. That’s not what she’s afraid of.

She reaches through the curtain to run the shower. After propping her crutches up against the wall, she lightly takes hold of the handrail and begins to undress. Though her feet are firmly planted and her legs are steadily carrying her weight, her grip tightens around the handrail as she starts to wriggle out of her jumper. When she works on escaping her t-shirt, Julia closes her eyes. She keeps them closed as she works on her lower half. She uses a single hand to untie her joggers and they simply drop to her ankles. She barely frees her hips of her underwear when they, too, effortlessly fall to the ground.

Her eyes remain shut even as she enters the shower. She carefully follows the handrail through the curtain and right into the water. The spray beats against her face as she points it upward and, thus, right at the stream, but she refuses to lower her head. She receives a reprieve when she wrestles the showerhead from its base and the spray is instead directed everywhere she swings her arm as she tries to find the bench without sight.

Securely seated, she blindly showers. Keeping her eyes closed serves her well as she washes her hair, and she comes to realize, she doesn’t actually need to see to wash her body. Still, as she brings the loofah to her chest, just to be safe, she tilts her head back, lifting her face toward the ceiling once again.

While the burn scar on her back produces an unceasing number of bizarre, uncomfortable, and sometimes excruciating sensations, the other scars on her body don’t hurt, but Julia is painfully aware of their existence. She’s still never seen any of them, save for the ones on her arm. Whenever she looks in the mirror, she angles her head in a way that hides the scar that curls out from under her hair and into her forehead. That leaves her to confront the shrapnel scares on the right side of her face, but they’re small and scattered and bearable. She’s only been bathed and changed clothing a few times since being awake. Each time, she made the event go as quickly as possible. The scars on her torso were never exposed for long. She doesn’t know where any of them are located exactly. She doesn’t know exactly what they look like. Yet, she sees them perfectly in her head often.

Now they’re exposed long enough for her to properly study them for the first time, but she refuses. She’s terrified to even catch a glimpse of them. She doesn’t even dare touch them with her own fingers. She cringes at the sensation she feels as she drags the loofah down her chest and between her breasts and then across her stomach. It tickles in a dreadful way when she washes down her right side and down her right hip.

She hates the way the scars feel. She hates the feeling they give her.

Julia rinses herself clean and leaves the shower as quickly and safely as she can. She throws on her robe and, though she ties it securely, she holds it closed at her chest. She finds herself in a dilemma when she sees both of her crutches propped against the wall and just one free arm. Graduating to a single crutch hasn’t even been discussed with Antony, but she just can’t bring herself to tear her hand away from her robe.

“You can do it,” she says to herself.

She slides her free arm into a crutch and firms her base. She is steady.

With her hand firmly clamped around the lapels of her robe, she leans against the wall to secure herself as she forces the task of opening the door onto the arm in the crutch. The moment the door is wide enough for her to fit through, she wedges herself into the gap and squeezes and wiggles through and back into her room. Successfully albeit clumsily.

“All right!” she cheerily says. “I feel better, but do I look it?

She knows her enthusiasm is grossly overcompensating, but her mother and Ava don’t seem to notice. They hardly notice her at all. Ava gravely stares at her phone as she brings it down from her ear.

“What is it?” Julia asks.

“That was Ms. Thakur’s office,” Ava says. “A courtesy call. The IOPC is formally opening an independent investigation later today. After you address the media. So that you won’t have to face any questions about it from them just yet.”

“That’s good news.”

Ava finally looks Julia in the eye. “It isn’t an abuse of power investigation. They’re investigating for conspiracy.”

Julia suddenly finds herself a whole lot less steady.

* * *

David is still more than a block away when he hears the commotion. He _feels_ the intrusive energy of the media and paparazzi hovering nearby. As he starts to cross St. Luke’s Street, he looks down it and sees the swarm, primed and waiting for the Home Secretary’s arrival. He physically grasps at his chest as it tightens.

His dress shirt easily bunches up in his fist. Without the ballistics vest underneath, there’s extra material. He’s already had to re-tuck and keep his shirt from riding up several times. He does so again as he walks into an alley after crossing St. Luke’s Street. The alley leads him to a ginnel. He follows it to a service road. On the service road, he finds a particular lane. At the end of the lane, he finds the loading bay to St. Luke’s Clinic, where a man in a suit much nicer than his is waiting to receive him at the gate.

“Mr. King?” David says. He retrieves his wallet from his pants pocket and produces his driver’s license. “Police Sergeant David Budd. I apologize that I don’t have my badge.”

The man looks between the bars of the gate and sternly examines David’s ID and then David himself. Satisfied, he smiles brightly and throws open the gate. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Budd.” He grabs David’s hand before he can even offer it and heartily shakes it. “When the Home Office called and told me to expect you, naturally, I had to do a Google of you.”

David scratches his nose to hide his amused grin, but his amusement is short-lived when he wonders what Mr. King discovered about him.

“All that, er, recent news aside, I served with the Royal Albion Regiment myself,” he says, leading the way into the clinic through large loading doors. “First Gulf War.”

“Ah,” David says sensitively. “So you were in the Battle of Norfolk?”

Mr. King looks over his shoulder and shows a reluctant, somber smirk.

“Well, then it’s more than a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The smirk on Mr. King’s face brightens. “Stop with that nonsense, will ya? Call me ‘Bertie.’”

“David,” he responds. “Slash-Dave.”

Bertie does a double-take with confusion struck across his face but he pushes past. “I’ve a feeling we’ll have plenty of time to swap war stories, Slash-Dave.”

David shakes his head and chuckles. Already this job is shaping out to be more rewarding than he ever expected.

“Allow me to formally welcome you to St. Luke’s Clinic!” Bertie says with zeal, matching the splendor of the entryway and reception room.

David’s been in his fair share of hospitals, clinics, and rehab centers, but nothing as swish as this. Presently, it seems to be inspired by the Christmas-decorating prowess of Harrods. Garland with lights line the tops of the wainscoting. Heavily embellished Christmas trees occupy nearly every other corner. Decorative faux gifts, teddy bears, and other baubles and trinkets adorn any flat surface that will hold them. Yet, beyond all the festive dressing, David can see that the clinic would be beautifully elaborate at its barest. The marble tiles glisten and run from wall to wall, and on those walls are the stunningly fascinating wallpaper of Morris & Co. It feels more like a luxury hotel in Mayfair than a rehabilitation and wellness center.

Still, it appears as though St. Luke’s, as swanky as it is, is the right choice to recuperate in relative privacy. David studies the windows that face the public street. From where he and Bertie stand inside the foyer, the media outside have no vantage point on them, but were they to, David can tell the windows prevent them from looking in. Additionally, MPS uniformed officers, as well as St. Luke’s own impressive security, successfully manage the crowd, keeping them organized across the street and the entrance well clear.

“Thanks for the head’s up regarding them,” David says, jutting his chin toward the chaos.

Bertie shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s mad. How did you manage to avoid them?”

“I just followed you directions to a T.”

“I mean, before,” Bertie says, “after St. Matthew’s and all that.”

He waves his hands in front of his chest and David immediately interprets the gesture. He nervously clears his throat as his head twitches.

“I, er, just didn’t get out much, and when you ignore the rest of the world, it unsurprisingly moves on.”

“Cheers for that then, eh? Listen, don’t worry—I never bought all the nonsense they tried to put on you. I believe you to be a good ‘un.”

David can only press his lips together. The appearance of a smile is there but he’s unsure what sentiment is behind it.

Bertie receives it positively and kindly smiles back. “Well, I think as you can see, St. Luke’s is a top-of-the-line facility. That includes security. Your boss, there, is in excellent hands.”

He directs David’s attention to the large television in the lobby. BBC News shows Julia’s doctrine of doctors standing in their white coats along with Mrs. Montague and Ms. Eddingham outside Royal London Hospital. David spots PC Rhys Newman off to the side, surveying their surroundings. In front of them all, Julia sits in a wheelchair.

_“I would like to express my most heartfelt appreciation and admiration of the doctors, nurses, and entire staff of Royal London Hospital. I am eternally grateful for their efforts to save and care for me, as well as the many other lives that were affected by the attack at St. Matthew’s.”_

“Come on,” Bertie says. He starts walking out of the lobby. “I have to show you around before she arrives.”

David has to tear his eyes from the television screen. There’s something troubling about seeing her back in the wheelchair. She puts on a stoic front, but he believes he can see the dismay.

* * *

St. Luke’s Clinic in Chelsea possesses all the latest in diagnostics equipment and prides itself in its state-of-the-art rehabilitation and physical therapy facility and boasts an exceptionally qualified and experienced staff. None of that impresses Bertie as much as one particular feature.

“The pool,” he beams as he walks backwards through a set of double doors.

Bertie leads David into a large glass enclosure housing a 4-lane 25 meter pool. Even though the clouds diffuse the sun’s rays, light reflects off the plate glass windows that are the walls, off the pristine white tiles surrounding the pool, and off the water itself, naturally and ethereally brightening the room. David briefly dreams of standing there on a proper sunny, summer day.

“Three feet deep at its shallowest, for 15 meters,” Bertie says. “Progressively deeper to six feet. Best part, though—34 degrees.”

David walks to the pool’s edge and as he gets closer, he can feel the heat surround him. He crouches down and studies the steam dancing above the entire surface area of the pool. He reaches toward the water, fascinated by the wisps of vapor dispersing as he nears the surface. A smile stretches across his face when he lets his fingers sink into the warm, comforting water.

“Hydrotherapy sessions every day, throughout the day; today being the exception with the arrival of your boss and all,” Bertie says. “A couple hours of lane swimming open to members and staff every morning. After hours, though, when it’s dead quiet, it’s deserted, and absolutely stunning. I like to take my breaks here, kick off the shoes, roll up my pants, and dip my feet in. 15 minutes of heaven, I tell ya.”

“Must be,” David smiles.

He shakes his hand dry as he stands next to Bertie. They simply look out at the pool, letting the tranquility of the glimmering water entrance them.

“BUDD.”

David jumps and searches the room for the speaker transmitting Miller’s voice and the camera watching them. Bertie calms him with a hand on the shoulder and directs him to the closest security camera. They both give it a wave; Bertie rather cheerfully, David more reluctantly.

“Heya, Bertie,” Miller says kindly. “Would you mind bringing Sergeant Budd to the Home Secretary’s room? I’ll meet you both there.”

Bertie claps David on the back and the two of them make the journey to Julia’s room. Along the way, he vigilantly observes his surroundings as he did the entire tour. He studies the staff he passes, quickly gleaning their names from their nametags and remembering their faces. He takes note of the route and commits everything he sees to memory. He searches for exits and locations to hold for safety and maps them in his mind.

Bertie leads David down an isolated corridor and to a lone door at the end of it. He pushes it open and lets David in where Miller is already waiting.

“Why aren’t you wearing a ballistics vest?” she immediately says, worried and annoyed. “You’ve a spare, don’t you? Where is it? I didn’t bring you one.”

“I’m in the middle of moving house. It’s in a box somewhere; I didn’t have time to find it,” he lies.

“Then at no point are you allowed to serve as PPO until you find it.”

David reluctantly nods.

Miller rolls her eyes as she exasperatedly sighs and starts rummaging through an MPS-issue duffle bag. She produces a radio and earpiece. “Same call-sign,” she says.

He swiftly sheds his coat and attaches the radio to his person; shoving the earpiece into his ear, clipping the cord to the back of his shirt collar; and fastening the radio itself to his belt. All effortless like old hat. He swings his jacket back on and clips the mic to his lapel.

“Control,” he says into it. “Sierra Zulu Seven Nine. Radio check.”

Straight into his ear he hears, “Sierra Zulu Seven Nine. Control. We copy.” After what turns out to be a pause, Control comes back on. “Nice to have you back, sarge.”

David avoids looking at Miller until she stops glaring at him and goes back to her bag.

“Here,” she says, handing him an expandable baton in a holster. “This doesn’t leave the building. At the end of every shift, you’ll leave it with Bertie, here, or one of his guys. They’ll store it and you’ll pick it up at the start of every shift.”

“Understood,” David nods as he shoves the holster onto his belt at his left hip. It’s not a firearm but it’ll do.

“I guess you’ll have to be ‘eyes’ today,” Miller says.

He subtly grimaces at his assignment of sitting in the surveillance room and spending hours staring at the wall of screens, monitoring the dozens of cameras scattered throughout the facility.

“You’ll do a four-hour shift,” Miller says. “We’ll see how everything goes, then you’ll come back tonight at ten to do an eight, and then we’ll go from there. Have your vest by then.”

The muscles in David’s cheeks bulge as he turns to leave the room. He’s forced to retreat back when a small entourage enters. A St. Luke’s administrator leads the group. Right behind him, Julia is wheeled into the room.

The tension David felt moments ago leaves his body. And then swiftly returns. Julia is wheeled on right past him. She doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Not even with a glance.

The glimmer of disappointment he saw in her eyes when she was on the television is ever apparent now. As the clinic’s administrator gives her a tour of her rather luxurious room, David watches as she sternly stares at the ground. Meanwhile, Ms. Eddingham stays close by, absolutely engrossed by her phone, her thumbs furiously tapping its screen. Mrs. Montague immediately starts moving about the room and unpacking Julia’s things.

She comes to the dresser he stands beside with a pile of neatly folded clothes in hand and a warm smile on her face. “Hello, David.”

He returns her smile and nods. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Miller manages to grab his attention simply with the furious energy he can feel emanating from her. She widens her eyes to varying degrees, urging him from the room, but he tilts his head toward Mrs. Montague and shrugs, feigning helplessness. He then decidedly ignores her and her punishing glare.

“Everything went all right at the hospital?” he asks Frances, fishing for insight into her daughter’s demeanor. “With the media and all?”

“Well,” she sighs, “Julia was none too pleased to be sat in the wheelchair, but, you see, she had a little spill this morning.”

“What?” His head whips in Julia’s direction.

“She’s fine,” Frances insists. “Thankfully nothing serious. Just a sprained wrist and ego.”

David examines Julia’s hands. She’s pulled the sleeves of her thick cardigan as long as they will reach, but he sees a bit of a wrist brace poking out from her left sleeve. He also notices something else that’s been bothering him.

“Ma’am?” he says. “I’ve been meaning to ask—Did the police ever return Julia’s personal effects from the fourth of November?”

“No. Are they supposed to?” Frances becomes excitedly hopeful.

“With the case closed, they should have.” David frowns as dread grows inside him. “Unless there’s been an appeal.” For Frances’s sake, he works up a smile and shakes his head. “The MPS have a lot on their hands. I’m sure that’s all it is. I’ll look into it.”

“If we could at least get the jewelry back…and it’s not about their monetary value. They’re family heirlooms.”

“No, I understand,” David smiles.

She places an appreciative hand on his arm and then carries on with the unpacking. Without bothering to see Miller’s persistent silent insistence on getting a move on, David starts to leave the room. However, once again, he’s prevented from doing so.

A silver-haired man in a bespoke three-piece suit strides into the room. His face lights up when he realizes who it is he stands before.

“Police Sergeant David Budd,” he says melodically.

David looks the man square in the eyes but then briefly glances at Julia as she finally looks at him. Though it’s definitely more like _through_ him.

“Dr. William Percy, Julia’s psychiatrist,” the man says. “It is a real delight to meet you.”

It’s always unsettling to meet someone who already has prior knowledge of you. It’s the feeling of being at a disadvantage. It’s the concern of how they came to possess the information and just how much of it they have.

David purses his lips together, incorrectly assuming he’s smiling, and returns the handshake as firmly as Percy gives it.

“What do we owe the pleasure, Billy?” Julia says.

It’s a courteous inquiry but not at all delivered as such.

Percy strides on past David. “My Christmas gift to you,” he says. “A holiday furlough!”

For the first time since arriving, Julia looks engaged.

“Sunday evening you will be allowed to _finally_ return home,” Percy explains. “Just for a few days, though. You’re expected back here on the 28th.”

“That’s wonderful news!” Frances beams. “Isn’t it, Julia?”

Everyone focuses their attention on her. David can see the hint of happiness in her softness, but whatever hangs over her head massively tempers her excitement. He desperately wishes he could speak with her.

But they can’t go back to the way it was.

Julia is the principal. David is the bodyguard.

Scratch that.

David is a rent-a-cop, who simply monitors security cam footage. When he returns for his graveyard shift, he is without his vest once again and confined to the surveillance room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
>  _“So it’s nothing really to do with Miller. She’s just doing her job well.”_
> 
> _David’s eyes drift up to the ceiling as he reluctantly nods._
> 
> _“Accountability, Sergeant Budd,” Julia says curtly. “Have some.”_


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professionalism. DPS checks in with David and Julia meets with the IOPC.

Despite the luxurious comfort that St. Luke’s and her room, in particular, provides her, Julia doesn’t sleep. She’s truly begun to believe she never will, and worse, it’s been something new every time that’s kept her up. A whole cavalcade of concerns racing around her mind.

She felt hopeful that sleep would come now that David’s back on her security team, but once he left her room not long after she arrived, she never saw him again. That had kept her mind running, but it’s her inevitable meeting with Flora Thakur that distressed her enough that it rendered the antihistamine she took completely useless.

She fiddles with the Velcro of her wrist brace, occasionally rolling her eyes at herself, at the absurdity of requiring a wheelchair because she sprained her wrist, at the absurdity that led her to slip out of her crutch and injure herself as she tried to catch herself on the wall.

She has to moderate her own thoughts, and the wild speculations they lead to. Her heart beats too fast for someone lying in a stationary position and the dread that fills her chest suffocates her lungs.

Every second passes like a minute.

She lies in bed, ceiling-studying once again. No tiles here. Just beautifully fascinating wallpaper that entertains her eyes. Swirls and curls leading them this way and that. Not unlike the way her thoughts do her mind.

She doesn’t notice that the sun is already out in full force (for London sun). It only barely peaks through the drapes covering her windows. She doesn’t realize the time and that her first proper day of rehabilitation begins.

As soon as she hears the first knock on her door, she’s already lunging to turn on the lights from her bedside table.

“Come in!” she hoarsely shouts.

Her physical therapist pops her head in and throws open the door when she sees her patient still in bed. “Up and at ‘em, Julia!”

Judy strides in straight to the windows and flings the drapes open. The sunlight is legitimately nothing to blink at, but it does rejuvenate Julia. The absence of winter fog or clouds or rain does effortlessly brighten her mood.

“Do you think we could venture outside today?” she asks.

Judy pokes her head back out the door and signals at someone before addressing Julia. “We can do rounds in the courtyard, but we can’t go out into the neighborhood just yet. Your fan club still awaits outside.”

Julia rolls her eyes. The presence of the paparazzi is a surprise. She’s begun to regret dismissing her mother’s suggestion of recuperating abroad. Recovering somewhere along the Mediterranean was the much better idea. It would have been best for her to get away. From everything. Everyone. Maybe even from the one she wanted back in her life.

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Julia says as she sits up and sees an orderly enter the room pushing a wheelchair. “You can steer that fucking thing back where you got it.”

“Julia,” Judy sighs. “It’s precautionary. After your fall—”

“I stupidly thought I could use one crutch before I was ready, but that’s what I’m here to learn how to do. So teach me.”

“We’ve plenty of time to get there,” Judy says. “Let’s not push too hard.”

“I’m not looking to run the London Marathon. I just want to be able to stand at the despatch box and berate the Shadow Home Secretary with at least one arm free to gesture.”

She grabs both her crutches leaning against the nightstand and demonstrates that she’s capable enough to walk on her own. However, she grimaces at the shooting pain in her wrist when she weakly plants the left crutch. She reluctantly concedes and waves the orderly over and takes a seat, rolling her eyes as she’s wheeled away.

* * *

Nothing can ruin a day like being beckoned by DPS. Especially on a Saturday. Especially when David was spending time with his kids. Especially when he’s only operating on four hours of sleep following a graveyard shift and an hour-each-way commute. At least he got rest on the train and rest in his bed.

What really makes it that much more worse, though, is having to deal with the imbecilic duo of DCI Paul Medwin and DS Stephen Villa. The Directorate of Police Standards already has its reputation but it is massively unhelped by the cartoonishly bro-ish Medwin and Villa, who obnoxiously play up their chemistry and piss away time as if they have an hour show to fill but just 15 minutes of actual material.

Already they’ve kept David waiting for 20 and he’s been gritting his teeth for the past ten of them as he thinks about the time he could be spending with Ella and Charlie. Even though he did only have four hours of sleep, he had been having a brilliant morning and afternoon with his kids. They had gotten so much done and were having plenty of fun in their time together. The kids always could deliver on happiness.

Finally, Medwin and Villa enter the interview room. So not only do they have the impeccable timing of disrupting his Saturday, but they also manage to disrupt his recollecting of it.

“Heya, Davey!” Villa says, far too loudly for the confines of the room.

“David,” he says under his breath.

The worst part of it all is that David must be on his best behavior and do more than just tolerate them. His future is at their mercy. Still, he half-assedly gets up to shake their hands when they join him at the table.

“Thanks for giving us some of your Saturday,” Medwin says. “We’ll make this quick.”

 _Unlikely_ , David thinks.

“A little bird told us you’ve got a new job.”

David wasn’t looking up when they spoke. He’s not sure which one of them it was. Ultimately, it’s irrelevant; they make similar noises.

He fights the impulse to roll his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “That was me. I’m the ‘little bird.’”

Villa refers to his notebook and nods. “Yeah, looks like he was the one that left us the message,” he says to his partner.

“Right,” Medwin says. “Well, thank you for that. We’ll have to notify your supervisor.”

“CS Ledley is already aware. I said that in the voicemail as well.”

Again, Villa studies his notebook and then subtly nods when Medwin consults him.

“Look, gentlemen,” David says, desperately trying to get things moving along. “I’m simply a private protection officer for the Home Secretary. A private contractor. Just an additional body.”

“Oh, we bet,” one of them says into their snickers.

Were he watching in on this interview on the monitors, David would be banging his head against the desk. “I don’t know what you’ve found in your investigations,” he says calmly, breezily, “but the Home Secretary and I only have a professional relationship." He doesn’t say “currently” or “presently” as to not incriminate himself as it had been hammered into him by his solicitor. "I notified you so that you may observe or check in on me should you choose to. I would hope you do, so that you can see that I am fit to return to field duty.”

Medwin crosses his arms as he leans back in his chair and studies David, looking him in the eyes and then letting his attention drift upward. He stares much too long for David’s liking and even grins. “That is for us to decide,” he finally says, “so I think we will take you up on your offer. What’s your schedule?”

“It’s fluid presently, but PS Miller and the principal have me working graveyard.”

“Of course she does.”

David bites his tongue and pushes past. “I am doing a 16 today, starting at four.”

Medwin punches his arm forward, freeing an impressive Omega watch for him to examine. “Well, maybe Steve-o and I will stop by. Maybe we won’t.” He shrugs and starts to get up from the table; Villa clumsily jumps up to follow. “Keep us apprised of your shifts until they become regular, will ya?”

David nods.

“We will see you later,” Villa says.

“Why—” Medwin suppresses his annoyance and turns away from David. He physically has to turn Villa to get him to do the same. He leans toward his partner and lowers his voice. “Why’d you go and decide that? I _just_ said maybe we would, maybe we wouldn’t.” Medwin looks back at David over his shoulder. “It’s a maybe.”

“Yeah,” Villa adds. “‘Maybe.’”

David wagers a guess he’ll be seeing them later.

After they leave, he holds back for a few minutes to keep from awkwardly running into them. He knows from past experiences that it’d be another half an hour of his life wasted. Had he known he’d have to deal with those two dolts, he would have weighed the consequences of committing all those violations more seriously.

Still, though, he’s decided he wouldn’t change a thing.

David finds it a bit fortuitous to be called into New Scotland Yard. He actually intended to come in at some point before Christmas, and a meeting with DPS is the perfect cover.

He confidently and casually walks through MPS HQ like he belongs. Thankfully, even for the weekend, the building is abuzz with energy. No one pays him any mind as he continues down the stairs below ground level.

No one except for Louise.

“David?”

He’s stopped from heading into an isolated corridor. “Lou! Hey.”

She approaches him skeptically but greets him with a hug nonetheless. When she pulls away, she looks above him much like Medwin had done earlier. “Did you get into a fight with a Christmas tree?”

“What?”

Louise reaches up and gives the top of his head a tussle. Pine needles, glitter, and fake snow rain down in front of his eyes.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t those idiots say anything?”

“Ah, you met with Medwin and Villa,” Louise sympathetically groans. “How’d it go?”

David continues shaking bits of Christmas from his hair. “I don’t know with those two, but they wanted to talk to me about my new ‘job.’”

“And what’d they say?”

“Nothing that couldn’t have been said over the phone,” David says, realizing that they wasted his time yet again. “They made their stupid jokes, but as far as where I stand, no idea.”

“How typical of them,” Louise frowns. “So why are you parading around like a Christmas bauble?” she says, gesturing at the festive bits now scattered on the floor.

“The kids and I were doing some decorating. We also went to the Christmas market in Hyde Park.”

“So _did_ you get into a fight with a Christmas tree?”

David takes a moment to think about it. He juts out his bottom lip and playfully tilts his head from side to side. “Actually, yes.”

Louise waves her hand and shakes her head. “I don’t want to know what that means.”

“I had to wrestle a Christmas tree up some stairs,” he explains.

“What are you doing bringing your Christmas tree upstairs?”

“Didn’t say it was mine.” Now David is the one to gesture away the conversation with a wave of the hand. “I’ll tell you about it another time. What are you doing here?”

Louise brings both their attention to the folders poking out of her handbag. “Boss wants me to start looking for my new partner, so I came in to grab a bunch of candidates’ CVs.”

David stares at them with great interest. “Hey, do me a favor, Lou? Take your time?”

“What?”

He grimaces at his own request. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I might want to reconsider my—”

“How much time do you need?”

“A few weeks?” he guesses. “And, look, you’re not a fallback. My decision won’t be dependent on whether they let me come back to Specialist Protection or not.”

“I don’t care about that,” Louise shakes her head. “You’re not going to hurt my feelings if you decide you do want to stay a PO. I’m just happy you’re reconsidering this.”

David pulls the corner of his mouth into his cheek. Louise offers him a similar smile.

“Wait,” she says. “What are you doing down here?”

“I, er, was distracted. Just kept coming down the stairs.”

“Nope,” Louise says, shaking her head. “Try again.”

David sighs heavily and surveys their surroundings; they are alone on this floor of Counter-Terrorism. “I shouldn’t say,” he says, just to be safe. “You should have deniability.”

Her eyes widen. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Louise, just carry on about your business.”

“No. Whatever you’re about to do, you might need my help. Or my cover, at least.”

He hates to put her in such a position, but she does have a point. Yet, the words still struggle to escape his mouth. “I need to get to the evidence in the St. Matthew’s case.”

“You fucking what?!” Louise cackles.

“Shhh!” David pumps his hands toward the ground. “Julia’s belongings,” he specifies. “They haven’t been returned.”

“Well, it’s a good thing they haven’t been.”

“Why?” Worry makes his stomach turn. “Has there been an appeal?”

“No, not an appeal. IOPC will be seizing all material related to the case for the conspiracy investigation. They’re—”

“What conspiracy investigation?”

Louise’s face drops when she realizes she has to break the news. “The IOPC are investigating Julia for conspiracy.”

David desperately wants to just run to St. Luke’s in nearby Chelsea, and he very easily could, but he can’t. He can’t just barge in and talk to Julia. It would be unprofessional.

He starts pulling at his thumb while he tries to breathe deep and stretch his neck. Louise watches with concern as he fiddles far too much while standing in place.

“You know,” she starts to say, “with all this dysfunction around here, there’s quite a bit of disorganization. Things are getting lost and misplaced all the time.” She shows the hint of a cheeky smile. “What of Julia’s things do you need?” she says. She starts walking into the corridor he had hoped to enter and tilts her head for him to follow.

* * *

Beads of sweat collect on her forehead and upper lip. It’s been more of the mental strain to endure the pain than it is the result of the (hardly) physical activities. They had warmed up her wrist enough that the pain was bearable and tolerated, so they did plenty of walking and climbing and descending of stairs with the pair of crutches, but those have been walks in the park, so to speak; save for the park. In between the aerobic exercises, she’s stretched, really testing the limits of her newly repaired joint, as well as her burn scar.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try the pool?” Judy asks. “It’ll put less strain on you, and it’ll be warm and refreshing at the same time.”

Julia had immediately shot down the idea when she was presented with it. “I’m sure,” she says. No type of swimwear could make her comfortable enough to get into the pool, even if it was a full body wetsuit.

She’s helped off the ground by Judy and then begins doing assisted squats over a yoga ball with Judy holding her hands. She immediately feels all the active muscles burning and has to take a rest on the inflated ball after a handful of reps.

“We’ve done a lot already,” Judy says. “We can call it a day.”

“I just need a little break.”

“Then you can do that as we stretch. Back to the floor.”

Julia groans as she prepares to lower herself down to the ground, but someone catches her eye and she sits back upright on the yoga ball, grimacing at the quick pull of her scar.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

David stands at-ease with his hands folded in front of him and suddenly, Julia’s transported back in time to months ago. She’s at her desk in her office and she glances up to see David dutifully standing watch. He’s a little different now with his shaven face revealing a leaner and slightly more aged, experienced man. But the feelings of safety and comfort are the same.

Julia shakes herself out of her daydream and erases any emotion from her face. Except for annoyance. That, she presently can’t suppress.

“Where have you been?” she says harshly.

“Ma’am?” 

Judy brings over Julia’s crutches and helps her to her feet before ducking away and pretending to tidy up. The end of her session comes at a good time as a couple of suits enter the workout room but stay by the door, possibly waiting for an audience with her. They get comfortable, and if they don’t mind waiting, wait they will.

She brings her attention back to David, glaring at him. “I’ve hired you as my protection officer. What good is a protection officer who is nowhere near?”

David struggles to swallow as his cheeks begin to turn pink. “PS Miller has had me monitoring the security cameras.”

“I’ll have to have a word with her.”

“That isn’t necessary,” David quickly says. His eyes on the ground, he starts shaking his head regretfully after stupidly and unnecessarily calling out Miller. “She has good reason to relegate me to the surveillance room. I, er… I’ve misplaced my ballistics vest and until I find it, it’s obviously unwise to have me at any post besides monitoring the cameras.”

“So it’s nothing really to do with Miller. She’s just doing her job well.”

David’s eyes drift up to the ceiling as he reluctantly nods.

“Accountability, Sergeant Budd,” Julia says curtly. “Have some.”

He tightens his lips and presses them together, swallowing his words and leaving him to only nod once again.

Julia squints her eyes in confusion as she notices something peculiar about his face. “Are you glimmering?”

The confusion on David’s own face is only brief. He immediately registers what she refers to. “Glitter, ma’am. I thought I’d gotten rid of it all, but I can’t seem to escape it. My apologies.”

Her genuine curiosity implores her to inquire further but professionalism overrides everything. The glitter must remain a mystery.

“Find your fucking vest,” she says.

End of conversation.

David nods one final time and starts to leave. When he turns around, he finds himself confronted by the idiotic, derisive grins of Medwin and Villa. No doubt they are pleased, or actually maybe disappointed, to hear him being dressed down by his boss.

“Heya—”

“David,” he says before Villa can finish.

They sidle up, flanking him as they manage to turn their creepy grins into almost kind smiles for Julia.

“Introduce us, Buddy.”

David bites the inside of his cheek as he slowly turns back around. When he faces her, Julia can see that he’s struggling to appear cordial. In fact, she believes she sees, that underneath his faux smile, he is actually seething.

“Ma’am, DCI Paul Medwin and DS Stephen Villa. They are the DPS officers handling my cases.”

She’s sure David made the distinction between the two but she’s already forgotten and has decided it doesn’t matter. She can’t tell the two of them apart regardless. She’s also more concerned about David’s plural use of “case.” She recalls him alluding to it before, but now that she sees a physical representation of them in the two detectives, it unsettles her.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” one of them says.

“Real pleasure,” says the other.

She shakes their hands and politely smiles, but whatever uncomfortable sentiment David feels, so to does she, based on the unnerving energy of the detectives alone. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

“We just wanted to come see PS Budd on the job.”

“Though, I guess this is also a courtesy visit for you,” Medwin says, or she thinks it might actually be Villa. “At some point in the near future, we will have to interview you regarding your relationship with PS Budd, here.”

“Of course,” Julia says. Her calm reaction and cool composure takes the detectives by surprise. “I’ll have someone from my office get in touch with yours and we’ll coordinate schedules.”

Both of them nod in eerie synchronization.

“Come on, gentlemen,” David says. “Let me show you around.”

They respectfully nod to Julia and then follow after David. At separate times, they briefly glance back at her over their shoulders. When they leave the room, she shudders but is unable to shed the uneasy energy they leave behind.

“We need to get out of here,” she says to Judy. “Should we head to the dining room?”

“Ava texted me. She’s waiting for you back in your room with some guests. Didn’t say who.”

She can’t imagine who would be visiting her this late in the day on Saturday.

Unfortunately, Julia and Judy walk through the wake of the detectives’ cologne essence. At least the men left a legitimate trail that would aid the women in which routes back to her room to avoid.

“Judy, might I ask you something a little strange?”

“Sure.”

“In dealing with Sergeant Budd, was my outrage over-the-top?”

Judy’s perplexity appears as an almost comical frown. “Erm, no, not over-the-top, I suppose. Certainly harsh.”

“Would you say the right bit of harsh? Like, properly? Authentically?”

“Sure?”

Julia nods, content with the assessment. It’s a stroke of luck that the detectives should arrive as she was admonishing David. Her relationship with David is very much a professional one. Any opportunity for it to appear as such is important, and for an opportunity to be witnessed by Medwin and Villa is massive.

If only the woman waiting in her room had witnessed it as well.

“Flora!” Julia says, unable to temper her surprise.

Flora Thakur, Director General of the Independent Office of Police Conduct, gets to her feet, as do, Julia assumes, her two lackeys. The IOPC serves under the umbrella of the Home Office. So, under ordinary circumstances, Thakur reports to Julia. Unfortunately, things are far from ordinary and Julia presently feels most unlike the superior in this relationship.

“It’s nice to see you, Julia.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine that to be true,” she smirks. Despite feeling humbled and small in the presence of the diminutive Thakur, Julia also feels an arrogant indignation toward the director general. “I’m sure I’ve made a lot of trouble for you.”

“You have, but surprisingly, you’re not the only trouble I have to deal with. We can discuss all of that another time. Consider this a courtesy visit—”

“That word is really being abused lately,” Julia says under her breath.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” Julia smiles. “Who are these fine people you’ve brought along with you?”

Flora gestures for her colleagues to gather near. “This is Sophie Carr and Yosef Ginola. They will be the lead investigators on your case.”

“Ms. Carr. Mr. Ginola,” Julia says, heartily shaking their hands. “I imagine we’ll be getting to know each other well. Or, rather, you me.”

They offer polite smiles but their eyes emit their unease.

“Like I was saying,” Thakur continues.

Except, she doesn’t.

David knocks on the door and is quite literally stunned to see all the visitors in the room. Julia closes her eyes in disappointment at the timing. She did not want Flora Thakur to discover PS Budd’s presence without a preamble from her.

Flora’s smile beams. “Police Sergeant David Budd! Flora Thakur, Director General of the IOPC.” She confidently strides over and shakes his hand. She holds on and subtly tugs, pulling him into the room. “Your name has come across my desk many times in the past couple months. I’ve seen the photos. I’ve watched the news. It’s really something to finally meet you, though, and here of all places.” She side-eyes Julia.

“I’ve hired PS Budd to be an additional protection officer,” Julia explains. “As you alluded to, the MPS have their issues, including one with personnel. I requested additional POs, but they couldn’t spare any, and so therefore...”

Thakur expresses her comprehension with a nod. “I’m sorry,” she says to David. “Was there something you needed from the Home Secretary?”

He sheds his discomfort, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. He doesn’t ignore Thakur, but he does only solely address Julia. “DCI Medwin and DS Villa wanted me to give you their business cards.”

Ava angelically steps forward and intercepts the cards on Julia’s behalf.

“DPS had come to check in on Sergeant Budd,” Julia explains. “He’s just finished showing them around the facility.”

“That’s a great idea,” Flora says. “Sergeant Budd, would you mind doing the same for my investigators?”

David accepts his role as St. Luke’s unofficial tour guide and obliges with a nod. He starts to lead Carr and Ginola out of the room.

“Ms. Eddingham, perhaps you’d like to assist the sergeant?” Flora says.

“Sergeant Budd can handle it,” Julia says, narrowing her eyes. “Ms. Eddingham should stay.”

Flora concedes and permits her lackeys to leave the room. David allows for them to go ahead of him as he lingers back, silently consulting with Julia that she’ll be all right. They covertly exchange glances, and though he is reluctant, David finally leaves. Flora pokes her head into the hallway and watches him disappear around the corner.

“It had to be Sergeant Budd?” she says, closing the door.

“He was readily available.”

“Of course he was.”

Julia purses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to beef up my security as soon as possible, but it takes time to vet people. PS Budd I don’t have to. I trust him.” Before Flora can say anything else snide, Julia quickly fills the silence. “I’ve already narrowed down a search for two more POs.” She catches sight of Ava looking puzzled. “Until then, the situation with PS Budd is beneficial,” Julia continues. “Admittedly, it is questionable and problematic, but tell me, Flora: What would you do were you a victim _and_ the target of a terrorist attack?”

The director general has no answer. She lowers her eyes, and Julia somewhat does the same. She feels ashamed for having to evoke the attack, but if it will shut Flora or whoever else down, then she will use it. At the same time, she realizes this may be her life now; the snide remarks and snickers, the dancing eyebrows and patronizing smirks.

“Was there anything else?” Julia says, lifting her eyes and her composure.

“Actually, yes.” Flora looks at the only other soul in the room. “Ms. Eddingham, I mean no offense—but, Julia, are you sure you want her here?”

Julia defers to Ava, who shakes her head and shrugs. “If Ms. Eddingham doesn’t mind staying, I don’t mind either.”

Flora heaves a hefty sigh. “All right,” she warns. “I also wanted to explain to you the logic behind launching an investigation into conspiracy.”

“Yes, about that,” Julia says, perking up. “Conspiracy to commit what exactly?”

“It’s an odious term, I know, but as you’ll learn, it will be preferable.” She glances at Julia’s crutches. “Maybe you should have a seat.”

Julia stands still but Flora silently requests she reconsider with a genuinely thoughtful and sympathetic look. So Julia makes her way over to the sofa and sits down with Ava.

“A conspiracy investigation gives us a broader scope and reach,” Flora starts. “I didn’t want to look into your dealings so narrowly, because here’s where we find ourselves: We’ve stumbled across a recording. On it is someone who sounds an awful lot like you allegedly engaging in a sexual—let’s call it an encounter—well, a few encounters,” she says confidently, though her cheeks burn red, “with someone who sounds an awful lot like an infamous Scottish PO.”

The concern and contempt in Julia’s eyes has less to do with the recording and more to do with that characterization of David. _Infamous_. She’s begun to lose count of those references.

“Obviously,” Flora says, “that suggests gross misconduct and an abuse of power. _However_ , that recording was found on the devices of former Chief Superintendent Lorraine Craddock, who is currently being brought up on corruption charges and Conspiracy to Commit Murder. That in itself is glaringly problematic. Now, she claims the recording was submitted to her anonymously. So who the hell sent it to her? Who would want this kind of dirt on you? Were you aware of the recording, or possible _recordings_?”

“Are you formally questioning me, Ms. Thakur? I’ll need my solicitor present.”

Flora holds up her hands. “Just thinking aloud,” she says, “but you must see what I’m getting at. Were you being extorted? Did that play a part in the assassination attempts?” She shakes her head and shrugs. “Then there’s this issue of a compromat.”

Julia’s mouth suddenly goes dry. She moistens it and then finds herself struggling to swallow.

“We _all_ know what was leaked, but I don’t care about that. I want to know about everything surrounding the compromat itself. Security Service, its former director general, the former PM, Sergeant Budd, you… You are all involved. I need to connect the dots. However, SO15 has been giving me a difficult go of it. Why is that?”

Julia scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know, Flora. The Metropolitan Police _love_ the IOPC.” The sarcasm can’t be missed. “I cannot, for the life me, understand why the police don’t want to cooperate with you.”

“We all play for the same team, Julia.”

“Well, it’s a little annoying when you’ve a teammate that’s more prefect than player.”

“You’re essentially head girl.”

“Yes, but I’m not in denial about how MPS feel about me.”

Flora sighs heavily. “I’ve a lot to find out. So, when you ask: ‘Conspiracy to commit what exactly?’ My answer is: I simply don’t fucking know. …Yet. And you know what?”

“The media don’t know either.”

A grin appears on Flora’s face as she points finger-guns at Julia. “Back of the net!” she says. “How truly lucky you are... It is ‘better’ for you that you are connected to a general conspiracy investigation instead of the specific charges of gross misconduct and abuse of power. Because, given the pathetic state of affairs, the public has become accustomed to investigations into police officers and government officials. They hear about yet another conspiracy investigation and they no longer bat an eye. A conspiracy investigation has been reduced to and become synonymous with a precautionary background check. Like we’re just doing some housekeeping. It is a bona fide shit-show at New Scotland Yard and Westminster, Julia, but you’re almost coming up roses.”

Julia’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“You are the butterfly that flapped her wings and caused a tornado, but you found yourself right in its eye; protected from the chaos _by_ the chaos itself. Somewhat.” Flora shakes her head, incredulous and impressed. “Just 24 hours since it was announced and already the media is downplaying the investigation into Julia Montague, connecting it with St. Matthew’s as if it is simply due diligence.”

“If all of this displeases you so, then why don’t you just nail me for abuse of power?”

“Because there could be a lot more at play here, and I’m determined to find out. The public might not understand the severity of a conspiracy investigation, but it still carries weight within the legal system.”

The women lock eyes and hold each other’s stares until David knocks on the door to return Flora’s investigators to her. He looks at Julia, concerned for her wellness. She gives no indication.

“Sergeant, would you please walk Ms. Thakur and her investigators out?” she simply says instead.

David obediently nods and waits for the director general.

“Let’s meet up again next week,” Flora says jovially, like they’re friends planning to get together for brunch. “Have a wonderful holiday.”

Julia puts on a smile so emphasized her eyes narrow. Before he closes the door, David gives one look back at her, but she’s lost in thought as she stares before herself at nothing. When the door finally does shut, she blindly grabs Ava’s hand.

“Thank you for staying.”

Ava sandwiches Julia’s hand with both of hers. “Of course.”

“But now you know the lot of it. I’m sorry for burdening you with all of this.”

“Some of it I already knew; the rest of it, as your PPS, I'd probably have learned eventually.”

“And what does everyone else know?” she asks, still unable to look at Ava. She even lowers her head slightly.

Ava takes a deep breath and expresses her sigh. “The general public know nothing. I think one of the tabloids tried to run with something, but it was so absurd that it died relatively quickly. New Scotland Yard, Westminster, and the Home Office—There are rumors,” she says, nodding. “It is stated in the St. Matthew’s reports that a ‘damaging recording’ exists; the details of which haven’t been released by DPS or MI5. The general consensus-slash-assumption is that it’s either to do with the compromat or ‘gross misconduct.’ Those in New Scotland Yard lean toward the latter, everyone else the former.”

Julia’s eyes narrow. It’s a surprise nothing has leaked. Flora might be right—there could be more at play. “Ava, I know I said I didn’t want to work over the holiday,” she says, “but I think I may have to. Please have all the St. Matthew’s material sent to my flat.”

“Done,” Ava says as she retrieves her phone and sets a reminder. “And, ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but I had no idea about the additional POs. Did I miss something? Was I supposed—”

“I was bluffing,” Julia says, “I didn’t want Flora thinking I had only hired Sergeant Budd.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, so we can’t let her call my bluff. Please consult with some security firms and let’s find me a couple more POs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I don't say it enough, but I mean it wholeheartedly: Thank you all so much for reading. I'm loving writing this. I'm so grateful it's being _seen_.** 😉  
>  
> 
> Next chapter:  
>  _“Welcome home, ma’am,” Miller says, pushing open the doors and stepping aside._
> 
> _A smile creeps onto Julia’s face. It doesn’t matter that there are two sets of stairs she needs to ascend. She doesn’t hesitate._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Her eyes climb the last set of steps before she does herself. She doesn’t expect to see much of anything at the top of the stairs, just the black of her door, but that alone excites her and stirs up the nostalgia of simply arriving home. However, she receives more joy than she hoped for._
> 
> _Hanging on her door is her Christmas wreath._


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Her eyes climb the last set of steps before she does herself. She doesn’t expect to see much of anything at the top of the stairs, just the black of her door, but that alone excites her and stirs up the nostalgia of simply arriving home. However, she receives more joy than she could hope for._
> 
> _Hanging on her door is her Christmas wreath._
> 
> Julia returns home and David keeps watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously:  
>  ** _Chapter 5:_**  
>  _At the end of the day, she’d return home to her flat greeted by the wreath she would put up on her door. It is a gorgeous Christmas wreath given to her by her mother adorned with pine cones and holly berries, a beautiful bow of deep red ribbon, and gold and silver baubles so glittery that, even after featuring it year after year, Julia would be dealing with the sparkly flecks well into January. It’s a wreath that would lead any visitor or passer-by to believe that the flat must have been as festive and quintessentially Christmas-y as the wreath was._
> 
> _Only it wasn’t._
> 
> _Inside, Julia’s home looked the same as it did throughout the year. She made an effort her first Christmas alone. Garland intertwined with a string of lights laid out on the mantle where a stocking hung. Fragrant candles on just about every flat surface; even unlit, their aroma gave off the impression of walking into a gingerbread house in the middle of a dense cedar forest. Glass cylinders filled with baubles or pine cones painted with fake snow flanked the wreath centerpiece on her dining table. Bows of ribbon adorned the walls. The focal piece, though, was a two-foot tall Christmas tree on display on the coffee table. The lights made it glisten like gold, its baubles were adorably proportionate, and sitting atop it was the beautiful Moravian star lantern her father had crafted for Julia’s very first Christmas. It adorned every tree every subsequent year of her life._
> 
> _However, with Julia’s busy schedule, she almost always arrived home too late to bother with turning on the lights in the garland, or igniting the wicks of the candles, or stuffing any gift that could reside in the stocking in the stocking, or admiring the dining table centerpiece because either she had already eaten supper or it was too late to sit down for a meal. Tragically, the lantern was illuminated the first night it was erected and then never again for the rest of the season._
> 
> _By mid-January, Julia finally got around to asking her housekeeper to pack away all the decorations and have them sent to her mother. Some years, Julia was able to make it to Gloucestershire to spend Christmas or at least Boxing Day with her family. There, she would see that the worthiness of the lantern resided with her mother and not her._
> 
> **_Chapter 14:_ **   
>  _Julia squints her eyes in confusion as she notices something peculiar about his face. “Are you glimmering?”_
> 
> _The confusion on David’s own face is only brief. He immediately registers what she refers to. “Glitter, ma’am. I thought I’d gotten rid of it all, but I can’t seem to escape it. My apologies.”_

David hears Vicky’s car pull up in front of the house but he doesn’t rush out of bed. It’s a lot to do with the exhaustion ravaging him, but he doesn’t discount the depression. The desire to get up and live life is there, along with the excitement to see Ella and Charlie’s smiling faces, but so to is the inexplicable reluctance.

The front door opens and the bright voices of the kids fills the house.

“Kids! SHOES!” Vicky yells after them.

David can picture them hurrying up the stairs, their shoes stomping up each step.

“DADDY!”

His bedroom door flies open and Ella and Charlie come crashing in. He braces himself as they leap onto his bed and onto him.

“Hey, hey!” he laughs, though one of their knees lands precariously close to his groin. He’s already received a kick to the shin. “Good morning!”

“It is six past!” Charlie shows his dad his watch. “That makes it afterNOOOON,” he sings.

David genuinely studies the watch’s hands over the tyrannosaurus rex’s face. “You are very right, mate. Well done.”

“Come on, kids.” Vicky stands in the doorway. “Let your dad get dressed, and you need to put your things away. You do not have butlers, despite what we’ve allowed you to think.”

“Can I go work in my garden?” Ella asks her father as she playfully pats him on his skunk patch.

He smiles. “I got you a new pair of gloves. They’re in your stocking. I suppose you can go ahead and use them if you’d like.” Ella’s eyes light up as she prepares to spring off the bed. “Hey, change into your garden clothes first, and wear your Wellies.”

Ella jumps off the bed and runs out the room, taking her mother’s hand as she does. Charlie stumbles off the bed and chases after his sister.

“Wait! I want to play!”

“NO!”

“I meant ‘help!’ Ella, please let me help!”

“If you bury one more dinosaur in my flower bed…”

David laughs, shaking his head. He grabs his phone off his nightstand and checks for any messages. He already knows he has none. He’d been awake when he should have been asleep and never heard a peep, or a chime, from his phone in the three hours he lied in bed.

But as his phone sits in his hands, a message fortuitously does come in. A text from Miller.

_Need you to work today. From six to midnight? Possibly longer. At Overstrand._

A second text immediately follows and simply says:

_VEST_

“Charlie, why do you need _any_ dinosaurs to garden?” David hears Ella say as they head down the stairs.

“I don’t, but they want to watch.”

Vicky knocks on his door, stealing his focus away from his phone. “Hey, are you all right?”

He looks at her. With nostalgia, as he is often to do lately. He pulls his cheeks back and nods.

The smile she returns is more genuine. “You coming down?”

“Yeah, I’ll just be a minute.”

Vicky brightens her smile even more just before disappearing down the stairs while his own fades away as he stares at where she stood.

She knows that he’s been working as a private PO. She doesn’t know who for. She didn’t ask questions, so he didn’t tell her. He doesn’t know what her response would be if he did.

She had first found out that he had been spending time at Royal London because she had panicked after showing up at his place in Camden and getting no answer at the door. She had feared the worst.

Of course she did. He did that to her.

After accidentally missing her first call, he picked up on the first ring of the next one and explained where he was. She sounded understanding, and that was that. Then when he showed up one morning to hers to join her on the school run, looking like death in clothes clearly worn through the night, she had realized he had spent the night at Royal London.

She showed interest in Julia. For his sake. She’d ask how she was. His answer was always the same; that the doctors wouldn’t tell him anything. Every so often, she would offer to see what she could figure out from the doctors or the gossip at her hospital, and an appreciative smile always stretched across his face as he politely declined.

Then Julia woke, but she told David they both needed time. So even though Vicky expressed a wonderfully kind, genuine excitement, his own happiness had already been tempered. He essentially downplayed his own feelings, possibly inadvertently leading Vicky to come to her own inferences.

Beyond that, they don’t talk about Julia, They maneuver around the pink elephant; around its legs, under its tail, over its trunk. They do a disturbingly good job of pretending it doesn’t exist, even though the anxiety crushes David’s chest like an elephant would a watermelon. Once the kids come into the mix and they sit around enjoying a pizza and a movie, everything’s fine. Just fine.

They don’t talk about Julia, because the time David and Vicky spend together has been quite nice, and apparently, that’s been enough for Vicky.

David takes his medication and joins his family downstairs. He sees through the large glass windows of the accordion doors leading to the back garden that Ella has surrendered a portion of her flower bed to Charlie, where he begins to stage a Mesozoic Era tableau.

Meanwhile, he finds Vicky rummaging through the containers of Christmas decorations. She pops up when she hears him approaching.

“Hiya!” she smiles. It flips into a playful frown when over David’s shoulder, their kids catch her eye.

“They’re making a right mess, aren’t they?” he says. He doesn’t dare look behind him.

She playfully scrunches her nose as she nods. “Nothing’s going to grow this time of year,” she says as she brings her attention back to the storage crates.

“Yeah, she knows that,” David says, “but my mum’s gonna teach her how to sow indoors. She’s bringing down a bunch of seeds and bulbs for her. So she just wanted to get the flower bed ready.”

“She’s so excited she’s getting it ready months well in advance?”

David finally looks over his shoulder and proudly watches Ella digging and turning the soil. She freezes for a moment and then cheekily chucks a spadeful of dirt at Charlie.

Vicky takes a steps back from all the containers with a perplexed look on her face as she continues to study them. “I thought I gave you more decorations than this. Where have they all gone?”

His bottom lip juts out as he shakes his head. “I mean, a lot of it’s been put up,” he says, pointing out the garland and stockings at the fireplace, the Christmas tree, and all the decorations hung on the walls.

“Oh. I really thought I’d given you more. Sorry about that, Dave.”

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t be taking from your supply anyway.”

Vicky shrugs. “Freed up space for me to get new decorations anyhow. Bought a little too much, actually. I can bring some tomorrow. We can put them up before your family gets in.”

He quickly runs through a number of responses in his head. He doesn’t know how tomorrow is going to play out exactly, having to now take into account an indeterminate work shift and a few hours to sleep, hopefully, but he knows that he doesn’t have any idea when he would fit in Christmas decorating with his wife.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “The place looks all right. Right?”

“I’ll swing by early tomorrow,” is her polite answer.

David grimaces.

“What?”

He winces again. “I have to work today.”

“Since when?”

“I got a text when I was getting dressed,” he says, fibbing about the timing. He’s not entirely sure why.

Vicky sighs. “When were you going to say something?”

He decidedly ignores the fast lane to an argument. “Can you please take the kids?” he says. “Or stay here with them if you don’t want them to shuttle back and forth…”

“Ok,” she nods.

She also offers an apologetic smile for the reactionary frustration. He knows the smile well now. He’s appreciative of it, but always regretful that she feels she has to give it.

“Do you have time to eat lunch or do you have to get going?”

“We can have lunch,” he nods. “Ella! Charlie! Come in and wash-up!”

While the kids race each other to the washroom, David follows Vicky into the kitchen to help her with the lunch they’ve brought.

“Forks?” she asks.

“Drawer behind you.”

But she shifted over as he spoke and ends up in going into the wrong one.

“To the left of that one,” he tells her.

She goes too far to the left and by the time she opens another wrong drawer, David’s walked over to open the right one for her. She collects a number of utensils while David moves about gathering glasses and plates. A spoon escapes her grasp and falls to the ground. Vicky bends down to pick it up as David passes by behind her, forcing him to jump out of the way, clumsily bumping into the counter. She moves to toss the contaminated spoon into the sink but David accidentally steps in front of her. She tries to throw around him, but he ends up back in her path in attempt to get out of her way. He laughs and ultimately takes the spoon from her hand and drops it into the sink behind him. Vicky fetches another spoon as David retrieves plates from a cupboard overhead. He’s reaching up when Vicky turns, accidentally spearing him in the ribs. He lets out a proper growl and cowers but manages to hold the plates together before they fly out of his grasp.

Vicky slaps her hand to her mouth. “Shit! Dave, I am so sorry!”

“You’re all right,” he grimaces.

She lifts his arm and examines where she inadvertently shanked him. “Are you ok? Are you bleeding?”

He looks down at the utensils in her hands. “Thank God, we didn’t need steak knives,” he laughs. He turns away, hiding a wince.

The kids fly into the dining room just across from the kitchen. Ella coolly slides into her seat on the bench and Charlie attempts to do the same but clumsily bumps into the backstop that is his sister. She gives him a playful shove and he leans into her on the bounceback. Their little back and forth continues as they fight for the naan. They grab the same one at the same time.

“It’s mine!”

“I grabbed it first!”

David leans forward and takes hold of each of his kids’ hands on the naan and pulls them apart, tearing the bread down the middle. “Now behave,” he tells them, “or Mum won’t take you to the park after.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got to work today, love,” he says.

Charlie pouts. As David sits at the head of the table, he leans into his son and gives him a peck on the cheek. The pout disappears. David smiles satisfied, but then he catches Vicky glance at the empty chair between them. Thankfully, she carries on, bothered for only a moment.

“Daddy, did your friend—”

David’s eyes bulge. “Charlie,” he quickly says. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.” He forces his own mouthful down before his son can continue. “Did you tell Mummy what you found out about the dinosaurs at the park?”

Charlie bolts upright in his seat and forces down what was a lot of butter chicken. “The horns on the _Iguanodons_ ’ noses aren’t horns at all! They’re thumbs!”

David chuckles as he watches his son go breathless multiple times in explaining, at length, that a paleontologist from almost two centuries ago incorrectly assumed that the _Iguanadons_ ’ thumb bone was a horn because they’d originally found only one of them in what turned out to be an incomplete fossil specimen of the creature.

Anything to keep Charlie from going down whatever road he was planning on going down.

The kids race through lunch, leaving a disaster area on the dining table. When Vicky and the kids head out the door, it’s only barely one in the afternoon, but David hurries to clean up the mess. He needs as much time as he can to get ready.

After he showers and dresses to his underwear and undershirt, he confronts his ballistics vest hanging on the towel warmer. It took at least six handwashes to get the stench of bile, beer, and breakfast butty out of it. He desperately hopes so, anyway. He very well could just be used to the smell at this point.

He takes a seat on the ground in front of the towel warmer and stares at the vest. He stares at the vest and listens to his breaths. He keeps track of them, double-counting occasionally, but he gets to at least 50 before he finally jumps to his feet, snatching the vest off the rack as he rises. He wrestles the hanger free and tosses it aside.

“It’s just a ‘fucking vest,’” he says aloud. “Miller’ll send you home.”

And he refuses to abandon Julia.

He aggressively rips the Velcro open, expands his lungs as far as they’ll go, and throws on the armor. He keeps himself barrel-chested as he fastens the vest. When he finally exhales, there’s a little wiggle room. The discomfort is annoyingly inescapable.

But he can breathe.

* * *

It takes half an hour by car to get to Julia’s flat in Battersea. An hour if commuting by bus. However, it didn’t really matter which mode of transportation David took, he left for his shift hours in advance. He opted for his car so that he could kill time in a safe space, so that he could get acclimated to his vest in a safe space.

He approaches five hours in the vest. After the first hour, the nausea went away, but breathing was still difficult for the first three, and he started to really feel affected by the weight of it in the same amount of time. He’s ever conscious of the vest, but he’s finally settled into it.

David avoids hugging himself to protect himself from the cold. Instead, he keeps his pea coat closed tight with one hand and shields his eyes with the other as the wind whips the drizzle into his face. He picks up into an awkward jog as he turns off Beechmore and onto Prince of Wales Drive, making sure to slow when he reaches the path to the main entrance of Julia’s block of Overstrand Mansions. He pulls his hand from his face and makes sure both hands are visible.

“Sarge?”

David smiles at the sight of a familiar face. “Hey, Hugo. How you been?”

The uniformed officer takes one hand off his rifle and offers it to David. “Yeah, I’ve been all right,” he says. “It’s really good to see you.”

“Likewise. It’s been awhile.”

“It has,” Hugo says, bobbing his head. “Gotta say, though, I’m glad to be back here. What about you?”

David shifts within his shell that is his vest, but he nods as well. “Just like old times,” he smiles.

_Not quite._

A black BMW sedan pulls up and out steps Miller from the passenger side before the vehicle even comes to a complete stop. She briefly acknowledges David with a nod and then scans their surroundings. Dozens of cars line the streets so she takes a moment to survey and allow for anything to develop. David joins her side and helps her assess.

Miller glances down at him out of the side of her eye. “Fucking thank God,” she says. “You found your vest.”

“Last box I looked in,” he shrugs.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t found it. The P was insistent that she have a PO tonight, but I can’t use any of my guys because MPS won’t spare them the overtime holiday pay since they’re already doing that for the New Year’s Eve gala, which I’ll need you for, obvs.”

“Obvs,” David smirks. “No problem on both fronts. Happy to be of service.”

“The Home Secretary said she just needs someone nearby until she falls asleep and she should be fine. So you might be able to take off around midnight? Maybe earlier. And just for tonight,” Miller adds. “She said she’ll be fine once her family comes in tomorrow.”

The rear window begins to roll down, stealing Miller’s and David’s focus from the street. It goes down just a few inches, enough for Julia to keep the light rain and most of the chill out and enough to chide the two of them.

“Am I supposed to spend Christmas in this backseat?”

The window rolls right back up and Miller subtly leans toward David. “Forewarning,” she says, “or I suppose it’s too late for that, you’ve seen it for yourself—She’s still a bit heated from going on a tear earlier.”

“Why? What happened?”

“They tried to saddle her with an at-home nurse.”

“Ah.” David nods.

“So do keep an eye on her.”

“That’s the job.”

Miller rolls her eyes as she reaches down and pulls open the rear door. Julia swivels in the seat so that she may place both her feet out onto the curb at the same time. Nearly ready to stand, she plants a single crutch to the ground.

“Do you need a hand, ma’am?” David asks.

Julia holds out her hand before David actually does offer his. He hesitates when he sees that she is still sporting the brace for her wrist. So he lets her fingers rest on his but is surprised when she locks a firm grip around them. He reaches for her elbow with his free hand but she’s already pulling herself up and out of the car. Once she’s clear of the door, she lets go and starts heading up the path, leaving David to catch up. He eventually does when he gets himself back in check, erasing any hint of the proud smile on his face.

“Nice to see you, Hugo,” Julia says.

He smiles. “You as well, ma’am.”

While Miller unlocks the doors, David hangs back behind Julia. He watches as she straightens her posture and take a deep breath. He can’t be sure, but when she breathes out, it isn’t a sigh. It feels to him like a triumphant exhale.

“Welcome home, ma’am,” Miller says, pushing open the doors and stepping aside.

A smile creeps onto Julia’s face. It doesn’t matter that there are two sets of stairs she needs to ascend. She doesn’t hesitate, but she does take her time. While she may be on one crutch, she hasn’t exactly graduated to it yet. She will be required to use both for the foreseeable future, but since her wrist still needs to heal and she is to be confined to just her flat in the next coming days, Judy was comfortable with Julia just using the one for now.

“How are you doing, ma’am?” Miller asks. “You feel ok?”

Julia reaches the landing safely but keeps hold of the handrail. She and Judy have specifically worked hard for this moment but it is that hard work that has resulted in the lingering pain in her hip, and for all the weight-bearing her back and left side have had to do, her body just feels out of sorts and is perpetually sore.

“I’m all right,” she says.

Her eyes climb the last set of steps before she does herself. She doesn’t expect to see much of anything at the top of the stairs, just the black of her door, but that alone excites her and stirs up the nostalgia of simply arriving home. However, she receives more joy than she hoped for.

Hanging on her door is her Christmas wreath.

It becomes the sole focus of her attention as she ascends the stairs. Everything about it makes her heart flutter. The large, neat deep red bow with its tails dangling off the faux foliage. The pine cones with their painted on fake snow. She can only spot a few of the bright red holly berries as she ascends the last couple of steps but as she gets nearer, she’s able to locate all of them.

She stands before her door, her eyes dancing over every inch of the wreath. She runs her fingers down the tails of the bow and savors the feel of the velvet. Some of the wreath is a little bent out of shape from storage. With her crutch hanging from her arm, she reaches with both hands to adjust a couple of the baubles. Once she’s satisfied, she automatically dusts her hands of the glitter, even though she knows it’s ineffectual. Glitter now adorns her hands.

Julia becomes fixated by the way her hands glimmer. She suddenly looks for David and finds him standing behind her, oblivious of her, looking up the stairs leading to the next floor.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Miller says. “Would you like to go inside?”

Julia shakes herself from her thoughts. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

But she turns back to her door and steals another moment in order to prepare herself for the disappointment that will be her plain, non-festive flat. She admires all the elements of the attractive wreath one last time and then finally steps aside. Miller unlocks the door and enters first.

“Whoa,” she says from inside.

David and Julia lock eyes. She stares at him with alarm and he returns the look. Somewhat. His concern quickly disappears and he eventually shrugs. Julia rolls her eyes and turns to enter to her flat.

Not even through the doorway and wafting over her is the scent of pine. Delightfully, not heavy-handedly. It is brightened with notes of mandarin orange and pomegranate and warmed with cloves and cinnamon. Miller actually turns off some of the lights she had turned on and, instead, plugs something into the wall. Fairy lights strewn all around the entirety of her flat and across the ceiling suddenly illuminate the place with a golden glow and Julia discovers that her home indeed matches the beauty of her Christmas wreath.

“This is just lovely,” Miller says.

The shock of the surprise erases all of Julia’s fatigue and pain. Rather, she is overwhelmed with awe and excitement. Her flat simply _is_ Christmas. Along with the fairy lights, garland is draped around all the rooms high up near the ceiling and on the mantles of all the fireplaces. Julia can’t count all the elaborate bows of different reds and greens and golds in gingham and plaid and stripes and polka dots. Sheets of fluffy cotton lie on several flat surfaces and on top of them are a number of Christmas scenes with adorable penguin figurines or snowmen or reindeer playing in the “snow.” Wreaths of different sizes and themes hang on all the doors and a few walls and some serve as centerpieces on her coffee tables and dining table.

There is so much more for her eyes to discover but her focus is stolen when she sees the tree. In between the sitting room and the dining table, a six-foot tall Christmas tree stands. Not a single branch is unadorned. Baubles of all different shapes and sizes hang. Ribbon and lights wrap around the tree from bottom to top, where her 41-year-old Moravian star lantern shines.

Julia shakes her head and brings both of her hands to cover her gaping mouth. Her tears obscure her vision, so she steps closer to the tree to admire it. She smiles into her fingers when she finds the familiar scratches and notches in the metal frame of the lantern, reminding her of the different Christmases that resulted in those blemishes. Her eyes drift down back to the tree itself as she tries to study all the ornaments hanging, but there are a variety of them and they are plentiful. Among the typical spherical baubles, she spots a few angels, a gingerbread man, a Nativity scene, an Imperial State Crown, a Westminster Palace, a number of flower ornaments, a few dinosaur ones, a Union Jack flag, a St. George’s Cross, and even a Saint Andrew’s Cross ornament.

Julia looks over her shoulder to find David. She immediately spots him through the window into the entryway where he still stands, watching her. He quickly diverts his eyes and turns away altogether, but not before she saw his lips curled into a smile. She’s disappointed he doesn’t see her grin.

She pulls herself away from the Christmas tree and heads for the living area to wait for Miller to finish clearing the study. As she passes by, she looks into the entryway where David pulls the chair from the wall slightly in order to hang his pea coat on the back of it. She watches him reach into the pockets of his coat to retrieve a book. He also fishes out a phone charger and squeezes himself in between the lamp and the wall to reach the outlet.

Bells hanging on the doorknob jingle when Miller closes the door to the study. “Everything’s all clear, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Angela.”

“Is there anything you need before I go? Would you like me to start a fire for you?”

Julia studies the fireplace as she takes a seat on her sofa. She immediately becomes delightfully enveloped by the plush pillows and the cushions, but a fire would certainly just top everything off.

“Sure. If you don’t mind,” she smiles.

Miller crouches down and kneels onto the hearth, but before leaning toward the firebox, she inserts another plug into an outlet. A whirring sounds and a two-foot tall happy, cartoonish lion wearing a Santa hat inflates next to the fireplace. The women laugh, genuinely delighted.

“Did you know all of this was waiting for you?” Miller asks. She ducks under the stockings hanging on the mantle and finally works on the fire.

“I hadn’t a clue.” Julia glances at the doorway to the entryway. David is out of sight, but she can imagine him listening in. “It is a beautiful and touching surprise,” she says, projecting her voice slightly.

“Your mum did an outstanding job,” Miller says.

Julia presses her lips into a neutral smile, but it quickly grows wide when the logs in the fireplace go aflame.

Miller dusts her hands as she gets to her feet. “Hopefully that will last you a while.”

Julia admires the healthy fire, delighted by its heat filling the room. The flames dance with vigor and pop and crackle with as much force. She realizes her PO is just as entranced, but it isn't the fire that ismaking the gears turn in her head.

“What is it, Angela?”

She reluctantly faces Julia and briefly glances toward the front door. “Ma’am, may I speak with you and PS Budd?”

Taken by surprise, Julia’s jaw bounces a few times before she ultimately resorts to simply nodding.

“Sergeant Budd, do you mind coming in for a moment?” Miller says. They watch him appear in the doorway where he remains. Miller takes a deep breath before addressing both of them, but mostly just Julia. “Ma’am, I understand that you don’t want to talk about it, as it is your personal life—”

Julia and David exchange uncomfortable looks.

“Miller,” Julia starts, “I don’t know what you may believe—”

“Ma’am, please do not insult me,” Miller says, sheepishly making a genuine request.

Julia nods, acknowledging her error. She also offers an apologetic smirk and then gestures for Miller to carry on.

“Admittedly,” Miller says as she straightens her posture after regaining her confidence, “you both have been very professional since Sergeant Budd came on board. I’ve no complaints nor criticism in that regard. There honestly is nothing to glean from the situation or your interactions. However, I spend _a lot_ of time with you, ma’am. So I just… _see_ it?” she says, uncertain in the wording but not the sentiment. Her eyes dart about for a second. “I sense it,” she finds.

Julia concedes. She will make no further argument because she can’t _make_ any argument. Not at this point. Not with Miller so full of (justified) conviction. It would be a losing battle.

“Now, I don’t know where you two are at in whatever this is…”

David uncomfortably shifting and crossing his arms and then uncrossing them catches Julia’s eye. He fiddles a bit with his ballistics vest and then eventually settles on leaning against the doorframe, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks incredibly uncomfortable.

“…but you are protected here,” Miller says. “No one will know what happens in this flat.”

Julia scoffs with indignation, but it most certainly is really a reflexive reaction of embarrassment. “Angela, you are pushing it now.”

“My apologies, ma’am. I don’t mean to be crass, but let’s not fool ourselves—I am leaving the two of you here alone. If you want to take advantage of this opportunity…” Miller looks at both of them. “You may want to take it.”

Julia and David exchange the same tempered surprised expression.

“Your home is a refuge for you two,” Miller says. “I can protect you in that regard, but I don’t know how long I can keep it that way.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” David asks. He stops leaning against the wall and pulls his hands out of his pockets to bring them together.

Miller looks at him sympathetically and does the same with Julia. “At the end of the week, myself and PCs Fenton and Newman are to be interviewed by Ms. Carr and Mr. Ginola. Interviews are just the beginning. As I’m sure you know, Sergeant Budd, the IOPC is thorough.”

“Thorough” may be an understatement. In their investigations into him, the IOPC had infiltrated David’s life. Colleagues, past and present, were questioned. As were acquaintances, friends and family; immediate relatives and distant. Soldiers and superior officers from his army unit were also contacted. Some old mates from home going back to primary school got a call. Even Danny, the owner of his corner shop in Camden, spoke with an investigator.

After revealing the locations in which his illegal firearm was hidden in his flat, investigating units consulted floorplans and appliance diagrams and legitimately searched every nook and cranny on every visit; both scheduled and surprise. Vicky’s home was searched once. The safehouse and his room at the Blackwood both received at least two comb-throughs that he was aware of.

Surprisingly, none of that felt like the most invasive element of the investigations. At the height of them, for the first couple of weeks following the end of the St. Matthew’s conspiracy, David found himself being watched rather closely. By paparazzi and IOPC investigators. The photogs he was able to shake rather easily. The investigators were resilient tails. However, after following him to essentially only Vicky’s, his kids’ schools, his flat, and the hospital, they eventually surrendered their pursuit. It was intrusive and prying for those two weeks nonetheless.

Now, the pursuit is sure to resume. If it hasn’t already.

“I want to assure you, though,” Miller says, “that you won’t have to worry about our statements.”

“And what does _that_ mean?” Julia says.

“PCs Fenton and Newman are good men. They come to me with their concerns, and they have expressed their misgivings about this situation, but they ultimately just want to do their jobs. They don’t want to kick up any dust.”

“They will kick up dust if they do anything but comply,” David says, stepping into the room.

“We’re going to comply,” Miller insists, “but we’re not rats. Fenton already has some sort of hang up with you, Budd. He’s actually the one who came forward and said he’d refuse to incriminate either of you. And Newman’s young and he’s only a couple years under his belt; he doesn’t want to soil his career so early on by snitching.”

David and Julia respond with furious disappointment. David throws his head back as he scoffs and nearly walks out the room, but stops back at the doorway, this time leaning his forehead against the frame. Meanwhile, Julia buries her shaking head into her hands.

“Angela, you all _must_ cooperate with them. You do not lie.”

With stoicism, Miller looks her right in the eye. “Ma’am, what is there to lie about?” She holds the stare with a pregnant pause. “For as long as, at least, PC Newman and I have been your POs, we’ve witnessed nothing worth noting.”

“I basically lived at Royal London,” David chimes in.

Miller’s eyebrows dance. “Yeah, that was a bit mad, but, PS Budd, you currently are not a PO. Neither of you are doing anything wrong.”

“That’s not how the IOPC will see it, Angela.”

“These are your personal lives,” Miller argues, growing indignant. Indignant on everyone’s behalf. “Our job is to just keep you alive to have one. With all due respect, ma’am, if you don’t like it, you are welcome to have us replaced. If you do, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that it’s been an honor—”

Julia holds up her hand. “I won’t have any of you replaced.” She sighs with great resignation. “Go home, Angela. Enjoy the holiday with your family. We’ll discuss this the next time I see you.”

“Merry Christmas, ma’am,” Miller says, bowing her head.

Julia lifts her cheeks and offers whatever smile that produces. Miller leaves the room and pats at David’s arm as she passes by, silently asking him to walk her out. Before he follows her, he locks eyes with Julia. She’s not sure what to read from his face, but it is not promising.

She brings her attention to the fire. It pops and crackles but her ear is trained to the entryway. She listens to the hushed, muffled voices of David and Miller. Then the deadbolt is unlatched. The door is opened. The door is closed. The deadbolt is locked.

Julia looks back at the empty doorway.

“David?”

Only the fire responds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:


	16. Chapter 16

“David?”

The fire pops so loud it makes Julia jump. Utilizing the sudden surge of adrenaline, she hurries over to the entryway, halting abruptly at the doorway when she finds David simply leaning back against the front door, staring at his feet, his left thumb in his right hand. He’s freed himself of his jacket; it currently rests on top of his pea coat on the back of the chair. His phone is already plugged in, charging away as it rests on a copy of Kierkegaard’s _The Concept of Anxiety_. Next to it is his radio and its accessories; the cables a jumbled mess. Occupying the rest of the end table is an unopened can of Red Bull, a packet of McCoy’s Salt & Malt Vinegar crisps, and a bag of Haribo Happy Colas. While it appears as though he’s prepared for a substantial stay in the entryway, David looks anything but comfortable.

Julia herself leans against the door frame and simply admires him, waiting attentively for him to speak first, but he holds fast to his silence, completely lost in thought. She is so content with his presence and his company that she joins him in the silence. Her attention drifts back to the end table and as she looks over the contents once again, her eyes narrow in confusion. She refers back to him. On his hip is a holstered baton, but aside from his vest, it’s the only equipment on his person.

“Why aren’t you wearing your radio?”

David exhales sharply, almost scoffing. “Miller called in State 11—end of shift—and handed you off to DPG,” he says. He looks her in the eye. “I’m not wearing my radio because I don’t need it—I’m not here.”

“What about Hugo?”

“Don’t know. Miller said she’d speak with him. She seemed pretty confident.”

“So now he’s in on this cover-up as well?”

David retreats back to the silence and Julia settles into it as well. While he stretches and kneads his thumb, she fiddles with the straps of her wrist brace. She rests her shaking head against the doorframe. She hasn’t a clue why she has Miller’s allegiance, but she does. Though she doesn’t want to take it for granted, it doesn’t sit right with Julia to take advantage of what is being handed to her.

“‘ _Even if it could cost me my job_ ,’” David says to the floor.

He doesn’t say it in that confident way he did that morning under the covers, but she still smiles to herself at the memory.

“If it was going to cost you yours, it was always going to cost me mine,” she says.

David looks up. He has the inside of his cheek between his teeth as he shakes his head. “And now it could cost them theirs.”

Julia thinks of Miller, Fenton, and Newman. She imagines them spending the holidays with their families. Pleasant vignettes of festive and joyful moments. She can hear the laughter and maybe even a few familial arguments. The images completely disappear from her mind when Sophie Carr and Yosef Ginola infiltrate her thoughts. Now each of her POs sits before the investigators, but Julia can’t fathom the dialogue.

“Miller said they won’t change their minds,” David says.

“But maybe she’s right—What do they have to lie about?”

“Fenton’s been with you from the start. Newman was watching us that day in the hospital lobby.”

“They’d have to volunteer that information, and it doesn’t sound like they will. Of course, we don’t know for sure what any of them will say.”

“So what do we do?”

Julia shrugs. “Appears there’s nothing we can do.”

“No,” David says, pushing himself from the door. He grabs the knot of his tie, aggressively wriggles it loose, and rips open his collar. “I refuse to accept that. I’m tired of doing nothing but sitting around and waiting.”

Julia feels his words hit her chest. She even has to adjust herself against the doorframe to steady herself once again. She settles and looks down at her fiddling hands. “Tired of waiting for me?”

He steps toward her and bends into her line of sight, forcing her to see him shake his head. “No,” he says earnestly.

“You’re sure?”

“I may be waiting impatiently, but I am waiting.”

He coyly lifts the corner of his mouth, trying to bait her into smiling. When she does, he cracks an even bigger smile.

“You’ll have to simply wait out the investigation as well,” Julia says, refocusing the conversation. “We both do. We both have to wait. So maybe Miller’s right about something else—Maybe we need to take advantage of tonight.”

David’s eyebrows jump up. “Is that a good idea?”

She knows he asks for her sake. The interest in his eyes, the excitement in them, tells her he would have immediately answered in the affirmative if he hadn’t taken the slightest moment to consider her.

“I just mean we don’t have to be principal and PO. We can just be Julia and David,” she says with a soft smile. “Can we please be them again?”

David bobs his head. “I would love that.”

“Good,” she says. She pushes herself off the doorframe and composes her posture. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

“I could eat.”

Julia turns around and leads the way to the kitchen. “You’ll be surprised to know I actually have something in,” she says over her shoulder. “My mother did the shopping before she went home, but she’s forgotten that the only thing her daughter can be bothered to make is a soft-boiled egg.”

She opens the fridge and is relieved to discover a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. When she turns around, David is offering her a wine glass as he’s peering over her to assess the fridge’s inventory. She takes the glass from him and gets out of his way. He slides into where she stood and starts retrieving items from the fridge.

“Let’s have breakfast,” he says. “We’ll do soldiers and eggs. You’re on eggs.”

“You’ll forgive me if they turn out hard-boiled,” she says before taking a sip of her wine.

David cackles so purely and so loudly, it startles Julia, prompting laughter from her and forcing her to quickly slap her hand over her mouth to keep from spitting out her wine. She chokes it down and tries to hide her laugh and smile with her fingers, but the brightness of them shine through. His laughter fades but a smirk remains as he stares at her.

“What?” she wonders.

He takes a deep breath and lets out an easy exhale. His eyes stay locked onto hers. She doesn’t shy away from his stare. She wishes she could exist in it forever.

“It’s so good to see you laugh again,” David finally says.

Julia’s cheeks burn red, but she doesn’t attempt to hide her embarrassment.

Enchanted by her smile, David has to shake his head to wake himself from his daze. “Let’s give the soft-boiled eggs a go,” he says. He places a carton of eggs in front of her on the counter and starts moving around the kitchen. “A hard-boiled soft-boiled egg,” he playfully grumbles, plenty loud enough for her to hear.

She places the end of her crutch into the small of his back and gives him a shove. He exaggerates the push and stumbles forward, grinning as he looks back at her over his shoulder.

“Don’t tease,” Julia warns, but she can’t get the smirk off her face to be serious.

“Saucepan?”

She points at a cupboard as she takes a drink. She swallows quickly to give verbal directions, but David’s already going into the correct cupboard and retrieving a saucepan. They move past each other; Julia positioning herself at the cooktop and David heading to the sink to fill the saucepan with water. They brush against each other, managing to avoid bumping into each other, even despite the tight space.

After noticing she couldn’t carry both the egg carton and her drink with her, David brings with him her wine glass when he delivers the saucepan. Meanwhile, she’s grabbed the loaf of bread for him from the middle of the island. They trade goods and move on to tackle their tasks.

“Bowl for the ice bath?” David asks.

“Shit. I almost forgot that bit.”

“And that’s how you get hard-boiled eggs.”

She responds to his snark with a glare before telling him where to find a bowl. He selects one just large enough for two eggs and fills it with water and ice and leaves it for Julia on the counter. He continues helping himself around the kitchen, popping the bread into the toaster, grabbing a pan, and gathering a few more items from the fridge. Julia also moves about, retrieving plates and utensils, and searching for the egg cups she hasn’t used in ages.

Together they move around the kitchen fluidly, like a pair of longtime dance partners, anticipating each other’s moves, creating a dance routine so effortless and smooth.

“Fingers crossed,” Julia says.

She pulls the eggs from the saucepan and transfers them to the ice bath. David grins at her skeptically to which she scrunches her nose at. She steps aside and lets him take over the stove to cook up a few of the sausages Ava’s father had made and gifted to her. 

With David preoccupied, Julia checks on the toast for him. Though they aren’t quite done, she fetches a knife and cutting board and leaves it for him near the toaster. There isn’t much else for her to do until the eggs cool and the toast pops up. So Julia leans back against the counter and simply watches David as he keeps a watchful eye on the sausages. He quickly tucks the ends of his tie in between a pair of buttons in his shirt when it dangles precariously close to the cooktop. Julia conceals her laugh with a clearing of her throat.

He looks comfortable. At ease. At home.

Julia smiles to herself, knowing she could never tire of admiring him. Without a second thought, she walks over and leans into David’s back, sliding her arms under his, hugging him from behind. Her crutch drops to the floor, making an awful clatter, but neither of them pay it any mind. She closes her eyes and buries her face in his hair as she clutches at his chest.

David’s cheeks lift and pull as high and far back as they can go. He places both his hands atop both of hers, holding them against his vest, trying to feel her touch against his chest. When she rests her head against his shoulder, he turns his head toward her. He closes his eyes and presses his cheek against the top of her head, smelling her hair, taking in her scent of vanilla and the garden of orchids, jasmine, and roses.

After about four breaths, David thinks he can feel her heartbeat against his back and Julia thinks she can feel his against her palms. Even if it is their own that they are recognizing, they will go on believing it’s the other’s.

The eggs have long since cooled and the sausage begins to approach a brownness that will taste bitter, but neither of them move. The sizzling and crackling in the pan is actually quite loud, but Julia isolates David’s breathing as she presses her ear against him. She tries to sync her breaths with his and they eventually slowly pulse together. Rising together and falling together.

They jump together when the toaster shoots out the slices of bread. Julia clutches David’s shirt. He clutches her hands. She gives a soft laugh into his back before patting his chest. She feels his tie dangling freely and blindly grabs hold of the ends and tucks them back in between a pair of buttons in his shirt. She lets her hands drags across his stomach and rest on his hips. She pulls him into her but then finally slides away.

Neither of them look at the other or say a word. They simply carry on. David swiftly bends down and picks up her crutch, handing it off to her before pulling the sausages from the stove. Julia tends to the eggs. She places them in their cups but leaves them for David to carry. Instead, she piles as much as she can on the stack of their plates; their utensils, the butter, the cream cheese, and a packet of smoked salmon. She precariously begins her journey to the dining table. As she starts, she wonders if she’s being watched, but David has left her to her own devices as he’s preoccupied with slicing the soldiers.

The trip to the table sounds and looks awful as the utensils rattle against the plates and the tubs of butter and cream cheese slide and shift off the packet of smoked salmon, but Julia delivers everything safely. She sets their places, holding off on opening the fixings for their breakfast in order to “hurry” back to the kitchen to help with the rest, but David arrives with it all.

“Go on, have a seat,” he says. He studies the table. Displeased, he jogs back to the kitchen and returns with a pitcher of orange juice, two glasses, and her wine.

“Thank you,” she smiles.

She settles into her seat at the head of the table and admires the spread before her. The food amazes her, and not just because it all looks satisfyingly delicious, but because it simply exists on the table before her. She can’t remember the last time she sat at the dining table to eat and there wasn’t so much paperwork laid out that she had to keep hold of the plate or takeaway container the entire meal. The food, and _just_ the food, actually rests on the tabletop for once.

David pulls his chair out and as he sits and slides in, he’s positioned himself off-center of the table, and scoots over even closer to Julia’s end. He pulls his place setting toward him and starts helping himself to their breakfast.

Again, Julia spends time simply gazing at him with a smile on her face, studying the way he lathers too much cream cheese onto a soldier, topping it off with a thick layer of smoked salmon. He gives it a bite even before he’s lobbed the top off his egg. It’s a wonder how he was to get by with just his packet of crisps and gummies.

David takes his knife in hand and secures his egg with the other. “All right,” he sings. “The success of this breakfast-slash-dinner hinges on the cook of this egg. How confident are you feeling?”

“Just open it.”

David smirks at her as he saws through the top of the egg. No yolk runs out. He keeps the knife in the cut, leaving the last bit of shell to break through. He looks back at Julia, an over-exaggerated arrogant grin on his face. She rolls her eyes at him and his frivolous tension-building.

“Are you ready?”

“David!” Julia laughs. “Open the damn thing!”

He saws completely through the egg and flips the top off with the knife. The moment it’s removed, the two of them quickly lean forward and peer into it. Through the thinnest membrane of the white of the egg, they see a golden orange orb of viscous yolk.

Julia drops back into her chair and lets out the most relieved of sighs. “Thank God. I wouldn’t have lived that down, would I have?”

“Nope.”

He shoves a soldier into his egg. The yolk breaks and oozes down the sides. He takes a bite and hums approvingly. He busies himself with devouring his meal, but he goes at an easy pace, savoring the food, or maybe savoring their time at the dinner table together. Julia herself finally starts in on her plate. She saws off the top of her own egg with ease and finds the same result inside hers. As she showers it with a few grains of salt, she notices the light reflect off her skin.

Silver and gold glitter from the wreath on her door still remains on her hands. She looks around herself and straight up at the ceiling at the fairy lights that are responsible for making her skin shimmer and wonders how long she could get away with having them up. She studies the table in front of her. Surrounded by the food is a simple Christmas wreath with a few white votive candles in the center. Gold stripes run down their glass cups, and while they aren’t lit (and they actually haven’t been burned much), she knows they are the source of the delightfully bright pine scent. The real tree contributes a cedar aroma as well. Julia gazes at it. Her eyes start at the bottom where a few small presents lie and then rests at the top at her beloved star.

She turns back to David. He’s dressing a soldier with tomatoes, but she stops him when she reaches over and places her hand on his cuff.

“Thank you,” she says. “For all of this.” She looks around her entire flat. Her awe genuinely shines from her eyes.

David looks down at her hand and places his on hers, rubbing it as he forces down his mouthful and shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and tightens her grip. “My mother had been staying here but there’s no way she did _all_ of this just for herself, because we didn’t know I was coming home until Friday when I was moved to St. Luke’s, and I had already arranged for a car to pick my mother up from the clinic to take her home to Cheltenham. She literally had no time to do this.”

He stares at her like a deer in headlights. “Wow. You figured all that out quickly.” Despite being called on his bluff, he still doesn’t claim responsibility. He nervously clears his throat. “If worse comes to worse and you’re out a job, have you thought about becoming a detective?”

“David…”

His modesty makes him shake his head to downplay the wonderfully thoughtful and beautifully extravagant feat. “It’s nothing,” he says.

She glares at him in disbelief, scoffing at the absurdity. “It is absolutely not nothing! How did you even think to do this? Why?”

Now he looks at her like _she’s_ the mad one, but then he just smiles to himself and shakes his head once again as he brings his attention back to his plate.

“What?” Julia asks.

David crosses his arms on the table, still staring intently at his food, but not actually. After a moment, he clasps his hands in front of his face where Julia watches him hide a soft, pleased grin behind his fingers. He finally lifts his gaze and places it on her as he rests his cheek on his hands. There is a brightness emitting from his face, from the subtlest smile on his face and in his eyes. It is satisfying and fulfilling contentment. He tells her “why” without saying a word.

She feels spoiled in receiving that look from him yet again. The embarrassment is too much. She shrinks and looks over her shoulder to see just how strong the fire burns. It is subdued, certainly not strong enough to make her feel as warm as she is.

“Your mother told me where I could find the wreath,” David says, bailing Julia out of the awkwardness.

“When did you speak to my mother about this?”

“Friday evening when I was serving my time in the surveillance room. I texted her.”

It is comical to think of David and Frances texting each other. Julia’s lips do gymnastics in a failing effort to keep from smiling and giggling with immense amusement and disbelief. She grabs her wine glass to cover her mouth. She knows David laughs at her because it’s glass. A glass of white wine that she tries to hide behind. She finally resorts to placing her lips on the rim and taking a sip.

“When I asked her if she thought you’d be ok with me doing this,” David continues, “she had that tree topper couriered over.” He points at it with a soldier and they both take a moment to admire it. “So we can’t take all the credit. We just embellished.”

“‘ _We_ ’?”

“I had a couple of helper elves,” he smiles.

Julia looks around and realizes that a few bows on the walls are placed relatively low, only about five feet off the ground. The playful, adorable tableaus of snowmen and penguins playing in the snow on her coffee tables are uncharacteristic of her mother’s style, but now their presence is explained. As are all the flower and dinosaur ornaments hanging on the tree. She also turns to look at the inflatable lion next to the fireplace still smiling back at her, and again, it makes her laugh.

“I hope it’s all right that Ella and Charlie were here,” David says.

“It’s more than fine,” she smiles.

Her heart swells at the thought of the three of them in her flat, decorating it for her. She is surprised by the joy that has struck her so swiftly. As she imagines the three of them dressing the tree, her breaths are stimulating and rejuvenating. Her smile strains her cheeks.

“They might have gotten carried away,” David says, examining their surroundings.

“No,” Julia laughs. “Not at all. I absolutely love it. Please let them know. Please thank them for me. I wish I could keep all of it up year round.” She gives her flat another look-over. “Maybe I will.”

“They’ll be well jealous.”

Suddenly Julia realizes they might have another reason to feel that way. “I’ve pulled you away from them, making you work weekends when—”

“It’s fine,” David insists. “I’ve been out of work for the past month; everyday is a weekend.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“Promise,” he says. “I see them everyday. I do the school runs. I make them their supper. I tuck them in every night.”

Julia’s eyes narrow. “You tuck them in every night, but you spent evenings at the hospital?”

“Erm, I tuck them in at Vicky’s,” he nervously admits, his head bobbing freely. “They haven’t stayed at mine in ages. My decision.”

Julia opens her mouth to speak. She tries to get out “Why?” but it seems too simple and insufficient a question to follow up something with such significance.

“We can talk about it if you’d like,” he offers her.

She can feel his reluctance as he hides his hands under the table from which eventually the pop of a knuckle sounds.

“Only what you want to volunteer,” she says.

He nods appreciatively and takes a moment to consider what he is willing to share. “It was in my flat that I tried to kill myself,” he bravely admits. “I couldn’t have them step foot inside there again. So they’re always at Vicky’s.”

He drops his eyes and starts gnawing on his bottom lip. Julia is quite taken aback as she witnesses him shoulder the guilt of his actions right before her. His shoulders drops as his face grows tense. His eyes are lowered, but she sees them dim.

She wishes he knows that he isn’t doing it alone; she bears the devastating weight right beside him. Yet, it’s probably for the best he doesn’t know. Surely, and ironically, he’d feel the load grow heavier, especially if he knew how much of the weight she takes on herself. She understands the decision he made to put the gun to his head didn’t rest solely on her, but there’s no ignoring the reality that the repercussions of her choices affected him, and continues to affect him, and that the reach extends farther than she realizes. It also touches his family. Of course it does.

“None of it is your fault,” David says.

Julia’s eyes narrow as she panics, wondering if she had said something aloud, but she realizes he sees the guilt on her face the way she sees the shame on his.

“Well, that’s not true at all,” she laughs, though it is quite a pitiful chuckle. “So what are you going to do? You’ll just never have the kids again?”

“I’ve moved house,” he says relatively brightly. “Tonight’s their first night in their beds in their own rooms.”

“And you’re not there,” she says, proving him wrong—that she is right to feel awful for making him work the weekends, and this shift in particular.

“Julia, it’s ok. A few days ago was my very first night in the new place. I had them over and we camped out and slept together in the living room. It was good fun.”

“Who’s with them at yours tonight?”

Hesitant to answer, he presses his lips together.

“How is Vicky?” Julia asks with genuine concern; not for herself, but legitimately _for_ Vicky. She wonders just how much she’s affected his family, Vicky included.

She can see that he’s carefully formulating an answer. He takes his time, digging out the rest of the yolk from his egg with a soldier. He pops the piece of toast into his mouth with what remains on his plate and goes to work on the rest of his egg. She realizes he’s decided he doesn’t want to talk about it. She returns her attention to her own plate and finishes up her meal.

David meticulously cleans up. He gathers his utensils together and secures them on his plate. He goes about picking up all the bits of eggshell that are scattered on the tabletop. When he’s satisfied, he returns his hands to his lap and leans his chest into the table’s edge.

“I think she believes that she and I are trying again,” he finally says.

Julia’s cheeks are packed with every element of their breakfast; cream cheese, smoked salmon, tomato, sausage, egg, and toast. She doesn’t rush to force down her mouthful. She doesn’t know how to react.

“And I am ashamed I haven’t told her otherwise.”

He looks at her, waiting for her response, but now it’s her turn to take her time. She chews thoroughly and then washes it all down with the rest of her wine. She runs her tongue over her teeth and tries to free any food stuck in between them. She dusts her fingers of crumbs and then sucks the grease off of her thumb.

“Julia?”

She surrenders. She shakes her head and shrugs. “David, I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, what are you thinking?”

“That I don’t want go down the line of questioning to figure out why you’re, I suppose, leading your wife on, because are you? Possibly, but I think if we were to go down that line of questioning, we’ll come to realize that maybe you’re not leading your wife on, that maybe you are in the right to not have told her otherwise. Trying again shouldn’t be off the table.”

Julia watches David’s eyes drift down. She tilts her wine glass toward herself and examines the bottom of it. Regretfully, not even a drop remains. She slides it away from her and pushes herself back into her chair.

Both of them seem to find the tabletop particularly enthralling.

David is the first to move. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves as he stands. “Are you done?” he asks, already reaching for her plate. He grabs it after receiving permission and buses the table. He turns back to her just before entering the kitchen. “I don’t want to ‘volunteer’ any more to this conversation, but I will say this: I won’t entertain what you suggest.”

He leaves the room shaking his head. While she goes back to staring at the table, studying the centerpiece wreath he or his children so thoughtfully placed, she hears him fill the kettle and flip the switch. The faucet continues to run. Soon dishes begin to clatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their night together couldn't just be one chapter. 😉
> 
> Thank you, you lovely readers. Thank you, thank you, thank you. There will never be enough "thank yous."  
>  
> 
> Next chapter:  
>  _"Sit with me," she says. "Please?"_


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vest.

Julia aims her ear toward the kitchen. She delights in the sounds of the running faucet and the clattering of dishes. More specifically, that she hears them in the background.

She folds her hands under her chin and picks up where she left off earlier in admiring her flat. She gazes up and admires every bulb of the lights strung above her. She connects “dots” with her eyes, drawing out constellations the way she did when she was a young girl in Gloucestershire. That must have been the last time she looked up at the sky and appreciated the stars, because even when the night is at its darkest, the London light dims that of the stars. Or maybe it’s because Julia simply never thinks to stop for a moment and look up.

She maps out Cassiopeia, the first constellation she ever learned. Then Gemini. She draws Pegasus and positions Lyra right next to it. Ursa Major and Minor are added to her “sky” and then Julia finds that she can’t quite complete any others. She chalks it up to being 30 years older than when she nearly had all of them committed to memory and certainly not because more than a month and a half ago she suffered a brain injury that led to a coma. She brings her fingers to her face and carefully approaches the lengthy scar on her forehead. She still can’t bring herself to touch it.

As she adjusts her hair to cover the scar, Julia notices a black storage crate in the corner of the room. When she opens the container, cringing as the latches pop loudly, Julia discovers familiar binders. She glances into the kitchen even though she’s unable to see David. She can hear, though, that he still stands at the sink washing dishes. She grabs the first binder and brings it to the opposite end of the table from which she sat. She doesn’t bother with reading the first few pages again—Julia immediately opens the binder to its purple tab.

David’s section of the first St. Matthew’s binder contains its own table of contents. She is utterly fascinated by all the material related to David alone. There are _multiple_ statements and transcripts of _several_ interviews. She discovers that the incident reports don’t just relate to St. Matthew’s College. There are some to do with Pope Square and Stoneleigh Terrace, locations unfamiliar to Julia, leaving her utterly perplexed. When she reads on down the list and sees a multimedia section dedicated to him, containing photographs and media files, Julia’s stomach tightens.

She finds herself so enthralled, she doesn’t hear the last dish placed into the drying rack and the faucet shut off. She doesn’t sense David approach her. It’s only when he puts the cup of tea on the table in front of her that the reality of her not being alone strikes her. The moment the cup creeps into her periphery, she nearly flies out of her seat, gasping and immediately slapping her hands onto the open pages of the binder.

“I’m sorry,” David says regretfully. He takes a step back with his own cuppa in hand. When he realizes she won’t move from her protective stance, the apologetic frown on his face shifts to one of disappointment. “Work?” he says.

She catches her breath but her panic lingers. “Erm, yes. Just something I needed to read up on right away. I don’t know when I’ll have any other time to do so.”

A shift occurs. David gives a single, solid nod and then his eyes drift down to the teacup in his hands. He places it on the table in order to unroll his sleeves and button up the cuffs. He considers walking away from his tea altogether, but he ultimately takes it with him back to the entryway of her flat.

With remorse and regret, Julia continues to stare at the invisible trail David left behind, but she refuses to close the binder. She brings her attention back to it and finally starts turning pages. The text is so abundant and dense, it doesn’t take long for her vision to tremble and the melding of words to occur. She plows through regardless. She isn’t sure what it is she searches for, but she knows her curiosity needs to be satisfied.

She satisfies her thirst with a sip of tea and pauses to take pleasure in it; it’s just to her liking. She glances toward the doorway at no one.

Julia takes her time skimming over the paragraphs of the detail-heavy, technical narrative of the St. Matthew’s bombing. Tahir’s and Kim’s names jump out at her and her heart breaks with each occurrence. Soon, it’s all she can see.

Julia has to close her eyes for a reprieve. She alleviates some of the fatigue on her eyes but not the dread that drowns her from within.

“David?”

When she opens her eyes, he appears from behind the tree. His collar is buttoned back up. His tie lies flat against his torso, the knot tightened back in place.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

Julia picks up the binder and secures it against her chest as she moves from the table. David glances back at it and strides over, grabbing her teacup and then following after her. He cautiously watches her maneuver around the Christmas tree. His anxiety fluctuates, peaking as he fixates on her crutch as she precariously lowers herself to the couch. She touches down safely. David hides his proud smile, turning his head away when he places her tea on the coffee table. He starts to leave.

“Sit with me,” she says. “Please?”

David eyes the sofa across from her and then leaves the room. She looks away from the window to the entryway, unwilling to watch him take his seat by the door. Instead, the Christmas tree holds her focus, until she catches a glimpse of David as he returns to the room with his book, tea, and snacks. The corners of her mouths lift and a proper smile breaks out on her face as David eases into the room.

“Happy Cola?” he asks, offering her the open pack of gummies.

She pinches hold of one of the miniature cola bottles and lifts it up. “Cheers,” she smiles.

He smirks and sets his things down on the coffee table. Before he sits, he goes to the unlit fireplace and starts a fire. A gust of coziness and warmth fills the room and grows brighter with the fire adding to the golden glow that already surrounds them. David drops himself onto the sofa, his back to the fire so that he doesn’t keep it to the open room. He is still on duty after all.

David continues settling in, oblivious of Julia’s watchful eye. He doesn’t notice her grin when he puts his legs up on the sofa, making sure to keep his shoes off the cushions. She does the same but kicks off her shoes, and immediately, the heat from the fire graces her soles. The binder waits for her on her lap, but she finds the fire more engaging, and then she finds David more engaging, even though he is engaged by his book.

“I thought you had reading to do,” he says. He doesn’t tear his eyes from the page to confirm that she stares at him, but he knows that she does. He raises a cheeky eyebrow and grins.

“I’m taking a break,” she says with the same sass she receives from his face. “How are you finding your book?”

He narrows his eyes at it. “Erm…Not quite sure. I’m only on my second read-through.” He looks up, pleased to see the smile he put on her face. “But anxiety, sin, and guilt all explained in one book? I’m sure I’ll find it enlightening,” he says but with a shrug. “What about you?” He juts his chin toward her and eyes the binder in her lap.

She looks down and places her hands back on the pages, afraid he might be able to read them from where he sits; it’s an impossibility. “Catching up on the budget,” she says.

What levity there was in their conversation she squashes with her lie. She finally does bring her attention back to the binder and David returns to his book.

She simply scans over the lengthy paragraphs of the reports and ends up flipping through several pages. Eventually, she comes across an interview, much to her relief. The distinct formatting is easier on her eyes.

 

  1                                                                                                         Sunday, 4 November 2018  
  2      (11.56 pm)  
  3      DCI SHARMA: Mind if we crack on while everything’s still fresh?  
  4      PS BUDD: Sir.  
  5      DCI SHARMA: One of your CPOs, Tom Fenton’s provided us with a first account.  
  6      DS RAYBURN: Fenton was on duty with you and PC Kimberly Knowles during the Home  
  7                Secretary’s speech.  
  8      PS BUDD: That’s correct.  
  9      DS RAYBURN: Fenton recalled you and PC Knowles left the auditorium a short time before  
10                the explosion.  
11      PS BUDD: Yes.  
12      DCI SHARMA: Why?  
13      PS BUDD: I saw someone outside the auditorium. I went to investigate.  
14      DS RAYBURN: Someone acting suspiciously?  
15      PS BUDD: That’s what I went to investigate.  
16      DCI SHARMA: Who was this person?  
17      PS BUDD: What does Kim say? What?  
18      DS RAYBURN: I'm sorry, David. Kimberly appears to have been very close by the stage

 

Julia physically turns away and staves off the emotions burgeoning and bubbling close to the surface. She flips the page and decides to turn a couple more for safety before bringing her attention back to the binder. She skims, noticing in later transcripts, Nadia Ali is the subject of the interviews and David appears to be doing some of the questioning.

She glances up at him sitting on the opposite sofa. He’s deep in his book. His focus pans the width of the page and back again. His brow furrows. His eyes narrow and relax and light up and narrow again. The cycle repeats.

Back on her lap, she immerses herself in the Nadia interviews, but knowing the outcome of it all, Julia realizes the interviews are superfluous. She goes back to flipping pages, still unsure of what will satisfy her curiosity. In fact, she’s even more unsure, now that her curiosity grows the further into the binder she goes, now that her curiosity grows at the sight of a name Julia would have been happy to have never seen or heard again.

Chanel Dyson

 _At Hoxton café_ No 42 Coffee Junction, _David Budd encountered Chanel Dyson, former Public Relations aide to Home Secretary Julia Montague._

Julia looks back up at David. He is still laser-focused on Kierkegaard. She opens her mouth to question him but decides against doing so and instead, physically holds her lips closed with her fingers. She reads on, learning that they exchanged numbers and David would later ring her and make plans to meet. Her eyes move along the lines quickly. Too quickly. She pauses to rest them, but only for seconds.

Her fingers leave her lips and move to the page where they guide her focus along the lines of text. She discovers that at the bar with Chanel, David was confronted by Luke Aikens. They discussed firearms and a man named Andrew Apstead. Julia makes a mental note of the exchange and continues on. Her eyes widen as she reads about David’s assault and abduction. She quickly turns the page and is prompted to tilt her head to the side.

She wishes she hadn’t.

Hadn’t turned the page. Hadn’t looked at the photo.

Her fingers tremble as they return to her lips to hold her mouth closed once again.

The fire is too warm. The lights too bright.

Julia tries to focus her teary-eyed vision on the picture before her. She can’t see clearly. She squeezes her eyes tight. Her tears spill down her cheeks. A drop lands on the sheet protector holding the photo. The sound of its splatter resounds in her ears.

She opens her eyes, hoping to legitimately attribute something to her brain trauma for once, but the photo of David in a suicide vest in the middle of Central London does, in actuality, reside on her lap.

“David.”

She doesn’t call for him. His name just escapes from her lips.

She turns to him for his response, desperately hoping he didn’t hear her. He did, of course. He looks up, his eyebrows lifted along with his cheeks. For a moment, he is innocent and naïve. Then subtly, yet very evidently, his face darkens.

“What is it?”

With great reluctance, Julia grabs both sides of the binder, rotates it so the landscape-oriented photo is correctly oriented, and holds it toward David. Not a second passes before the photograph registers with him. He closes his gaping mouth to swallow, but he struggles. He rips his eyes away, closing them tight as he gets to his feet. He marches toward the Christmas tree and away from the fire. He feels the heat more intensely than Julia. She sees his face glisten and hears his labored breathing when he slowly paces back toward her. He tugs at the knot of his tie with fervor and rips open his collar. The button flies somewhere into the tree.

Other than to close the binder, Julia is afraid to move. She barely turns her head in his direction, but she does witness him bend over. She listens to him take in meticulous deep breaths and exhale through his mouth.

One breath.

A second.

Another.

A fourth.

Julia loses count when his breaths quiet. She finally turns to him in a panic when she only hears the crackling of the fires.

He sits on the floor, slouched, his legs out stretched. It reminds her of his drunken visit to the hospital. Only he’s not drunk. He is broken.

Julia hurries over. She kneels down in front of him between his legs and casts her crutch off to the side. She takes a hold of his face and locates the scar in his eyebrow from which so much blood came. She drags her thumbs under his eyes going over where the dark circles once existed. She slides her fingers down his face to touch his bottom lip where it was split open. He attempts to smile through his tears. It is a pathetic but admirable attempt.

“I’m fine,” David blatantly lies. He tries to say it in his sing-songy way to substantiate his claim, but in extending the two syllables, his voice quivers and breaks.

“No, you’re not.”

He shakes his head, her hands fixed to his jaw, going along with each turn. “I’m not,” he agrees.

Julia lets her hands drag down his neck and come to a rest on his shoulders. She feels the padding of his ballistics vest under her palms. Her eyes widen with horror as she feels around his chest. Reaching into his open collar, she grabs around the straps and jostles the armor as he wears it, shaking him.

“Take it off.”

He delicately places his hands on her wrists. “I can’t,” he says softly, “but it’s ok. It’s ok, Julia. I have to wear it.” He pries her hands off his shoulders, brings them together in front of his lips, and kisses her fingers. “It’s the only armor I’ll wear with you.”

David pushes himself off the ground. He retrieves the binder, placing it down on the floor between them as he sits back down in front of her. They sit like children by the Christmas tree, examining a gift, trying to figure out what lies inside.

He starts to help himself through binder until he remembers the sensitivity of the material. “Erm, could you please open this back up to the photo?” he says, rotating the binder toward her.

“David, are you sure about this?”

He nods with confidence and conviction in his eyes. Thus, without hesitation, Julia immediately locates the plastic sheet protectors in David’s section of the binder and opens it up to the photo. He glares at it.

“Breathe,” Julia reminds him.

She places her hand on his chest and feels it rise substantially.

“I was ambushed by Luke Aikens and his men.”

He speaks carefully and clinically. His voice soft but clear. There is no inflection as he speaks and no commentary to dress up the narrative. Despite the clarity, Julia still listens intently. She won’t take any deliberate word for granted, even as it physically pains her to listen to him recount being beaten and drugged and waking up abandoned. He explains his assessment of the vest and tells her that his thumb was taped to the trigger. She glances down, searching for his left hand, and sees that he currently holds his thumb in his fist like it is the trigger device. He doesn’t seem to realize it.

Instead, David struggles to remember where it was he woke, trying to recall the details of the location. He grows frustrated but deems it to be irrelevant and moves on. He explains the tarpaulin and his efforts to contact the police. Julia studies all the units in the photo, especially the heavily-armed and armored officers.

“Why were SCO19 the first on the scene?” she asks. “You hadn’t mentioned the vest and you were concealing it with the tarpaulin. So why was the response so large and immediate?”

Dense wrinkles form in David’s forehead. “You don’t know? You didn’t read…?” He sighs with disappointment and dread when she looks at him blankly. “They didn’t arrive to assist me, Julia. SO15 had come to the conclusion that I’d something to do with your assassination attempts. The police were there to apprehend me.”

A smile slowly creeps onto her face. “You’re joking.” When he doesn’t mirror her amusement, she glares at him. “You’re not.”

“It’s too much,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry—You’ll have to read about the lead-up on your own.”

Julia nods as he refocuses on the binder. He lifts the page briefly to preview the next photo. He goes ahead and flips to it. It’s an aerial shot of him walking through the city. The next photo is similar. He explains the journey to somewhere more open, to somewhere that would result in the least amount of casualties. When he flips to the next page, it is a CCTV still of David in the middle of a long lawn, isolated yet surrounded by specialist firearms officers maintaining a safe distance with their rifles trained on him.

“Rayburn gets a radio to me here,” he says. “I’m sure there’s a transcript, probably even recording. You’ll, erm, have to read or listen to that on your own as well.” Julia nods in understanding, but then David shakes is head. “Actually, no. I need to tell you myself.”

“David, you don’t—”

“I do,” he insists. He directs their attention to the photo. “I am on the radio with Rayburn and Sharma. They’re down here.” He points at the blank space below the photo. His finger rests in the eye-line of the David in the picture. “I tell them that I had found the compromat. I lie to them about its location to bait Security Service, and the police are able to arrest the man who delivered it to you.”

Julia’s mind reels. “Jesus Christ...”

David lifts the corner of the page and peeks at the next photo and then a few subsequent. He carefully replaces the photo he holds back down and takes a nourishing deep breath.

“ _This_ is why I need to tell you what happens before you find out for yourself.”

He reveals the next photo. The perspective is from the opposite end of Pope Square. Julia is looking at the back of David and sees what he saw then—at the far end of the lawn, behind one of the SFOs are three people in plainclothes, but two wear ballistics vests. The third—a woman—does not.

“They had brought Vicky in. That’s her there,” he says.

He places his finger above the un-armored woman. There are no details to be gleaned from the low quality, unsaturated photo, but Julia’s chest still tightens. She makes a concerted effort to appear unaffected, but she feels as though she’s shrunk to inches.

“At this point,” David continues, “I think they had sentenced me to die.”

Julia shoves aside her insecurities, but absolute horror replaces them. She fixes her focus onto the David before her. He’s locked his attention onto the photo, but stares right through it.

“So I ask to speak with Vicky,” he says. His eyes becomes glassy. The lights from the Christmas tree make them shimmer. “I thought it was going to be the last time I spoke with her, and though I knew you were alive, I still thought you were in the worst condition.” He takes a breath that quivers. “I didn’t want to die, but I was preparing to go,” he says.

Julia closes her eyes, willing herself to transport to anywhere else.

“You’ll be able to read my exact words or listen to them if you choose,” David says, his head twitching to the side, “but I apologize to Vicky. For what I put her through. For who I had become. For what I did wrong. For failing as a husband and father…”

Julia squeezes her eyes shut tight, releasing her tears.

“She saves me, Julia.”

She finally looks at him, confronted by his remorseful but unapologetic gaze.

“Vicky pleads with them and an Expo officer is sent to me.” David flips the page and a brave figure stands before him in the photo. “He examines the vest and returns back to Sharma and Rayburn. You’ll notice Sampson’s joined them.” He points out an unmistakable figure. “I’m pretty sure she actually does sentence me to die, because they all begin to retreat.”

Julia swipes the tears from her cheeks as she fills with rage.

“But Vicky saves me again, Julia.”

David turns the page and she sees that Vicky ran to him. In the photograph, Vicky, mid-run, is a few yards in front of him as he shouts at her. David continues to the next photo and now Vicky stands beside him.

“Her presence allows me to clear my name and incriminate Security Service and prove that organized crime was involved.”

He explains everything to her, but she hardly listens. She focuses intently on David and Vicky in the photos instead. Side by side, David and Vicky walk apprehensively though London. Julia can see the fear in the Vicky. It is so potent, she can almost feel it, but it terrorizes her in a secondhand fashion. She will never actually be able to relate, but she also doesn’t feel the need to. She simply admires Vicky’s action.

Eventually, David and Vicky end up at his flat. He stops turning photos and relies on his narration. He says Vicky climbs down into a graveyard in front of his flat. She’s the one to retrieve the compromat and pistol blanks. Julia’s not sure how the blanks are connected. David explained it just seconds before, but Julia hadn’t absorbed it. He says Vicky delivers the evidence to the police. In exchange, Expo assist David in disarming the bomb. David returns back to the binder and shows Julia a series of stills from a perspective just feet in front of him.

“Er, you’ll probably be able to watch the video,” he says as he massages the base of his thumb.

“What happened next?”

With his lips pressed into a content and relieved smile, David takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I survived.”

“You survived,” Julia says, the corner of her mouth twitching up.

His eyes look dark in the dim light, but she finds their rings of blue. Her mouth pulls into a proper smile as she watches the Christmas lights glimmer in them. His eyes grow larger and more clear when he nears, but Julia pulls back and looks away, down at the binder still open between them. She flips back a few photos, lingering on the photos with Vicky at David’s side.

“‘ _I’m sorry for what I put you through_ ,’” he says evenly.

Julia looks up at him and discovers he’s looking down at the binder as well, but he doesn’t study the photo in the cursory way she does. He’s lost in the photograph.

“‘ _I’m sorry I’ve stopped being the man you married_ ,’” he recites. Julia, entranced by him, stares at him, entranced by the picture. “‘ _I’ve tried to explain but part of me never wants to explain what the war did to me. I never wanted it to touch you or us, but it has. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t_.’”

She wonders if reading his speech would have hurt less. The actual recording will definitely hurt the most. It resides with the other media files on a CD tucked into the sleeve of the binder’s back cover. Julia won’t touch it anytime soon.

“It’s happening again,” David says. He finally pulls his eyes off the photograph and locks them onto hers. “And I don’t want to put Vicky through that again.”

“You’re getting help, though. It’s different now.”

“I haven’t just stopped being the man she married, I am so far removed from him now more than I was before.”

He grows mournful for a time when that wasn’t true. Though he tries to fight it, his entire face frowns.

“David, you didn’t want to talk about it anymore. We don’t have to talk about it.”

He composes himself and shakes his head. “Well, I sort of feel compelled to now,” he pitifully chuckles, “but like I said: I will wear no other armor with you. Regardless of what happens between you and me…” David takes a confident, resolute breath. “Vicky and I are done. She and I dove right back into our life together again, like all we have to do is pop the missing pieces back in. How does that work when the pieces have changed?” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”

He cringes to himself and tilts his head. “I used to protect her by keeping the truth from her, and it destroyed me then. Now, I’m doing the same thing again, but I find that I’m ok with it.” He lets out a lame scoff. “That can’t be a good thing in a marriage.”

Julia simply nods. In agreement? In understanding?

“And it _really_ can’t be a good thing for my marriage that I—” He swallows. “That my…interest lies elsewhere. So, take your time, Julia. I’ll wait.”

“ _We’ll_ wait,” she says as she starts to get to her feet.

She kneels and grabs David’s shoulders to assist herself up. He lifts to his knees, bringing the support he provides upward as she ascends. She continues to use him to steady herself. Hands on his shoulders. Then his face. She looks down at him gazing up at her. She pulls him to his feet.

“After tonight,” she says.

She closes her eyes and surrenders. He kisses her tentatively at first. When she kisses back, greeting him with her tongue, he moves faster, and soon, his desperation is clear. He’s missed her. She’s pressing into him, showing him how much she’s missed him.

They break apart for air, breathing into each other. Julia catches her second wind first and begins again. She bites at his bottom lip, pulling him back into her. She takes on both lips and then his tongue. He smiles, breaking their connection again, but he quickly places his lips back on hers and then descends down her neck. His hands drag across her back to her waist and begin to slide up under her jumper. His hands glide against her skin as they approach her breasts. His lips caress her collarbone. She feels his breath grace her chest.

Julia pushes herself away, freeing herself of his grasp. “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head and hiding her face with a trembling hand.

David tries to catch his breath. “That’s ok.” He watches her straighten her jumper and takes notice of how she maintains hold of its ends, keeping it down. He nods to himself and quickly retrieves her crutch. “Here,” he says, positioning it by her side so that she only need slide her arm in. “Do you want to sit down?”

“I think I’d like to go to bed.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

“I would. Very much,” Julia nods.

Except the smile on her face is restrained and that of reluctance and reservation. David’s eyes narrow as he turns his head off center.

“But I probably shouldn’t,” he realizes.

She nods, confirming the thought, and steps into him, leaning her head against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

“You really don’t have to be,” he smiles into her hair. “It’s for the best we didn’t go any further—I’d never want to leave.”

“And I would never want you to leave.”

Julia presses her lips into his shirt and backs away. He steps aside and allows her to walk on by. She heads straight for her room without once looking over her shoulder. Not even when she’s in her room and carefully closing her door, but leaving it ajar, does she look at him watching her from the doorway of the entryway.

She keeps the lights off and climbs onto her bed. Though she lies on her covers, the fluffiness of the duvet still embraces her. She curls up onto her side and grasps at her chest where she knows the scar begins and holds her arm across her stomach where the other scar spans. She begins to silently cry.

In the darkness and through her tears, Julia eyes the box of antihistamines left for her on her bedside table. She won’t need them. Her eyelids grow heavy, and if she manages to lift them back up, she has to roll her eyes level and make an effort to focus them. She allows herself to surrender to the fatigue, but movement in the entryway keeps her from truly succumbing to sleep. She listens as she begins to drift away. The deadbolt to her door is unlatched. The door is opened. The door is carefully closed. The deadbolt is latched.

Julia fades.

* * *

_“Something happened along the way. A sense of alienation. A sense of exclusion from the best opportunities this country has to offer._

_“Law…Medicine…”_

She knows where to find him. Their eyes lock for a moment, but for a moment in which time slows.

On any stage, in front of any camera, at the despatch box, Julia is never lacking in confidence, but in this moment specifically, she is bursting with certainty. When she looks out into the crowd and spots David off to the side, he’s not her PPO. To Julia, he is her partner.

There is a question of assurance in that regard on his part, but she’s informed him that she wants him. In this moment, that is enough. After the speech, they can discuss it.

But Kim charges at her. Julia looks for David. Again, she finds him immediately. He is sprinting as fast as he can toward her.

A bright, hot light and clouds of gray consume him.

“David!”

Julia jolts awake. Her face rests against her duvet. She’s sunken into it more than when she first crawled onto her bed. She relaxes into its comfort and settles her heart. A new trickle of tears rehydrate the trail of dried tears from minutes ago? Hours ago? She feels a layer of clamminess all over her body. The air evaporates the moisture on her exposed skin, cooling her. Chilling her.

She feels the cold but her body still runs warm. She works her way under the covers regardless and rests her head against her pillow. She closes her eyes and nuzzles against the silk sheets.

Sleep doesn’t come. It is nowhere near.

Julia snatches the box of antihistamines off her bedside table and gets to her feet. She feels for her crutch and heads for the kitchen.

When she steps out into the living area, she spots a figure lying on the couch just in front of her door. She stumbles back into her room in terror. Her heart races as she stares out into the darkness of her flat. Nothing emerges up from the sofa. Nothing infiltrates her room.

Julia taps at her shin with her crutch. She winces at the pain and knows she is awake.

Her heart paces itself but still pounds firmly against her chest. Gripping her crutch tight, ready to swing or jab with it, she cautiously walks back to her door and from there, she peers over the couch.

David is sound asleep.

* * *

The cold in the atmosphere surrounds him. It is in the air. It comes off the snow. It penetrates his clothing. There is no respite.

In the distance, the sun shines off the snow covering the jagged, rocky mountains hundreds of kilometers away, but directly overhead, the clouds dim everything around him. He can’t tell the sand from the snow on the ground.

He constantly opens and closes his gloved hands. Though they are protected, the cold reaches his bones. His joints are stiff. He is already encumbered by all of his gear; his thermals and battledress, the protective pads on his knees and elbows, the thick gloves, his boots, his helmet, his rifle, his vest…

He hoists himself up and into the Foxhound. Even as cold and stiff as he is and as thickly suited up as he is and with his rifle on his person, he swiftly maneuvers the compact space inside the armored vehicle and pops open one of the hatches in the ceiling. He takes a deep breath and boldly stands through it, taking hold of the mounted machine gun he finds before him.

The Foxhound begins to roll and gradually accelerate. He quickly lifts up his facemask and fiddles with it and the radio mic that rests right near his mouth. He notices the RPG too late. It sails past him, right before his eyes. He ducks back into the Foxhound, bringing the hatch door down with him. The earth violently shakes. An invisible force shoves him down into his seat as the vehicle leaves the ground. It lands on its roof. He slams into it.

He blacks out.

He jolts awake to his skin on fire. He rushes to slap out the flames. They’re trapped under his vest. He can’t open his hand properly to free himself of it. He continues striking himself but finds he’s hitting his side with his thumb. He looks down with confusion but then immediate horror as he discovers a device taped to his thumb. He freezes still, moving only his fingers to wrap around it. He brings just his eyes down, and despite the darkness, he instantly recognizes the explosives attached to him.

He stumbles out onto the street. The brightness momentarily blinds him, but he quickly sees that he is surrounded by armed officers. Hundreds of them. There are rings and rings of them around him. They go back as far as he can see. They all have their rifles trained on him.

He screams at them not to shoot. He begs. Nothing comes out.

He hears the order to fire instead.

He is struck in the shoulder and then above his left eye. He is riddled with bullets, pushing him over. His head slams against the concrete. His hand opens. The tape has disappeared. His thumb lifts off the trigger.

He shuts his eyes tight.

He jolts awake to the rush of cool air. A breeze blows over him as he stands on the deck in his back garden. The sun shines on the parkland behind his house. He can see Ella and Charlie off in the distance, running around the playground. He smiles when their laughter reaches his ears.

The sun shines on his garden. On Ella’s garden. Her garden full of orchids, jasmine, and roses. Their delightful aroma lifts and mingles into the crisp, vanilla-scented atmosphere. He breathes deep, letting the floral air fill him.

He looks down at his empty hands. He wears only a t-shirt. He is finally unencumbered. That is, until arms slide under his and circle around his chest. A chin rests on his shoulder. Lips press into his neck. He smiles wide.

She breaks her embrace briefly to move to his side. He opens himself up to her, allowing her to step into him. Her hand rests on his chest. His arm settles around her shoulders. He holds her tight and closes his eyes.

* * *

David feels the weight on him before his mind truly wakes and before he opens his eyes. He hears the fire crackling, but it’s softer than the breathing that isn’t his own. He smells smoke, but not as strongly as he smells the vanilla and the orchids, jasmine, and roses.

He finally blinks his eyes open. He can’t see through the darkness quite yet. The fire helps him adjust. The orange glow has significantly dimmed but it lights the room enough. He smiles at all the silhouettes of Christmas decorations that he can make out.

He smiles brighter when he can see what he knows to be curled up next to him and on him. He brings his chin down to his chest. His nose ends up buried in Julia’s hair. He takes in a deep breath but freezes still when she stirs. She straightens out and presses the entire length of her against him, draping her leg over both of his, cuddling in closer to him and resting more cozily into the nook his arm creates. He tightens his arm around her. His hand on her side rises with her deep, somnial breaths. He listens to the constant pattern of them and is convinced she sleeps.

He places a kiss atop her head and then replaces his lips with his cheek, settling comfortably against her. He brings his hands together and hugs her tight.

David closes his eyes and matches his breathing with hers.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

David dreams himself and Julia back to Ella’s garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
>  _She places the ornate box on her lap. It nearly spans the width of her legs and is the same distance length-wise. It is only about an inch thick, maybe more, and weighs next to nothing. She grabs hold of the ends of the present and shifts it from side to side as she trains her ear at it. She theorizes fabric sliding against the cardboard of the box, but it is so faint a sound, she brings it even closer to her ear._
> 
> _“It’s a ring,” he says._
> 
> _Julia can hear the cheek in his voice, so she looks up, glaring at him with a raised brow. She sees the smirk on David’s face and rolls her eyes. He’s well-pleased with himself._
> 
> _“Just open it,” he tells her, the smirk even more smarmy, and apparently not disappearing anytime soon._


End file.
